High Living   Wednesday, October 02, 2013







My photos this week are from a trip we took to Santa Fe and on into Colorado  in 2011.

We're going back next week for a little more of that peaceful  mountain  air. I will not publish another post of Here and Now for at  least a week, maybe two.

I will be writing and taking pictures so will have lots to post when we come back.



I picked up a couple of new  anthologies last week and decided to use this  week The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry, published in 1994 by the Oxford University Press.

I goggled the book to get  a copy of the cover and though I found a number of different versions  of the book, I didn't find any with the  cover of the book I bought. The cover I ended up using is the cover that most often  appeared. 








My new poems,  as usual,will be what ever I came up with in  the week just past. I've mined so pretty good poems from 2007, 2008, 2009, so I'll continue digging there for my old stuff  this week.







Here we go -



 Me
near-dark of early morning

Anuradha Mahapatra
spell

Me
ambushed

Gary Blankenship
Meet 137

Me
a map for those of us who may someday go

Shiv K. Kumar
Days in New York   

Me
astonished by the cold

Ocean Vuong
Kissing in Vietnamese

Me
Bullcorn
Mountain Man

Hira Bansode
Woman

Archana Varma
Man

Cynthia Ruth Lewis
 To  Daddy's Perfect Little Angel

Me
barnyard fowl

Kunwar Narain
Towards Delhi

Narayan Surve
Lifetime

Me
it is hard

Vinay Dharwadker
New  Delhi, 1974

Me
the rules

Tom Kimmel
Hippies
Back to Heaven

Me
post-it notes

Dhoomil
The City, Evening, and an Old Man: Me 

Me
weather woes
the master









 Here's my first new poem for the week. Got myself into short poem mode. Wanted to do  that, now worried about ever writing a long poem again.






near-dark of early morning

near-dark
of early morning

deep
shadows

trees,
first leaves dropping

rustle
underfoot

whistling
from behind dark corners

a low
and dreadful tune

waiting for the sun's rising,
round and red

to chase away the gloom








As explained above, my anthology this week is The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry. My first poet from the book is Anuradha Mahapatra.

Born in 1956 into a rural working-class family in West Bengal, Mahapatra received an M.A. in Bengali literature from Calcutta University, and has served as an editorial assistant for Kolkata 2000. Her collection of poems Chaiphulstup appeared in 1983.

It's a little confusing, but I'm pretty sure the image on the left is of the poet.



Spell

Under the easy glide of water
lies more water, concealed within oneself,
oneself,  unconditional melancholy's magnet.
With a magic spell she imprisons
in the dead lamp's hollow
                    the blind muse of desire.
Whichever way life flows, so floats
the sacred banyan leaf.

(Translated from Bengali by Jotirmoy Dutta and Carolyne Wright )










Here's my first old poem of the week. I sneaked into 2010 for it.






ambushed

i
have a hitch
in my get-a-long
this morning, a vintage mid-fifties
phrase, probably planted
in my young brain by
Tennessee Ernie Ford
or some such,
meaning i'm limping around
like an old man
because of a pain in my hip,
the result of my cheapness
in refusing to pay $200
to have someone remove
a fallen tree from my
backyard resulting in
$400 worth of personal
pain and suffering after
trying to do it myself,
plus paying 200 to someone
to do the job i couldn't finish

but that's another story

it's the phrase
i'm interested in this morning,
the phrase that slipped
directly from my brain
like a quarter
passing, unhindered, through
the guts and gears of a malfunctioning
vending machine

in what  secret fold of our brain
do things like this abide, a homely phrase,
a word you forgot you knew, an ugliness,
deep buried, you think, never to  see again
the light of day - and suddenly there
they are again, the good and the bad
and the merely embarrassing, jumping
right out, throwing themselves
at the world like a giggle at your mother's
funeral, a subversive fart
while having tea with
the queen,
yourself revealed,
not really yourself, you explain,
but little pieces of our earlier self
you thought long left behind,
long banished or
forgotten

my mother
would sometimes call window shades
window lights,
an embarrassment to her
because she though it revealed
her country-poor upbringing

my father
stuttered when excited,
like all of us
sometimes ambushed
by the
past











My first poem from my library this week is by my friend, Gary Blankenship, Washington state poet and faithful fan of 8th grade football.







  

Meet 137

Graceful  people wear their grace like
a robe that isn't there.

Those without grace trip over the
pattern in a plain brown carpet.

I meet a man who eats salal berries.

I meet a man who redrafts his poems 137.

I meet an angry Indian.

I meet a man who cackles to himself.

I meet a natural blonde

I meet a woman whose wine remembers poems.

I meet moths and a June bug.

I meet a man who speaks in smoke, saxophones and colored cigarettes.

I meet a lost American dash Chinese.

I meet a woman who knows how to carry a bagpipe.

I meet a tree.

I meet a woman whose laughter made me cry.

I meet an artist who mislaid canvas, brush and palette

I meet a man who holds hands to let go.

I meet an angry white woman.

I meet a vegetarian who slices ham.

I meet a damaged harmonica in the dark of dusk.

I meet a man with a book bag attached to his shoulder.

I meet a dog leading a woman across a Chinese Garden.

I meet a woman at the Marine Science Center who did not know.

I meet a heron.

I meet a woman with no lipstick who paints her toes.

I meet Karen who did not want to.

I meet a man who leaves salmon where he walks.

I meet sand fleas.

I meet the key keeper.

I meet a man with canine eyes.

I meet a girl who touches spiders.

I meet a woman who could save us, it time steps aside.

I meet a raccoon family, a doe, and a squirrel who knows Sam Hamill.

I meet a woman whose  tongue dances to the drums of elephants and lotus.

I meet a man who is a boy inside a man who is a boy.

I meet a woman who agrees with me.

I meet a woman who is not here and will leave none too soon.

I meet a man who's boo does not.

I meet a woman who touches the past to find a future.

I meet a noxious weed and May' red bud in July.

I meet a woman who becomes a bobby-soxer.

I meet a woman who names.

I meet a future I cannot.

I meet people who treat houses as they treat their own.

I meet wife of, child of, infant, unknown.

I meet a woman who stops time with her breath.

I meet a hostile hostel resident, drunker than the harmonica.

I meet a woman who releases her toes.

I meet plate vultures.

I meet a boy in a metal cage.

I meet rose-colored glasses that smiles gray.

I meet a woman in the snow a grass harp between my fingers.

I meet a woman who cannot weather.

I meet a man who sings an ancient bamboo flute, made a year ago.

I meet singers on a Finnish banana boat.

I meet rose-colored glasses with a gray smile.

I meet the bus poet.

I meet snipe hunters.

I meet a woman who can kaddish too late to learn her dance.

I meet a woman who argues with me.

I meet the woman who starts the argument.

I meet a man who carries terse long packed from the mean streets

I meet a woman with socks in her pocket.

I meet a man whose past does.

I meet a man who cannot find the cherries.

I meet a man with blue paint on his everyday trousers.

I meet Blackberry.

I meet poets.

I meet a woman in a robe not  there. She
strolls down broken sidewalks










Here's another  new poem from last week. I love the early morning and early morning skies and watching the opening of a new day.






a map for those of us who may someday go

bright button
moon
hanging
on a blue
October sky

shadowed
rills and mountains
plainly shown

points
of interest
clearly 
drawn for
long-distance
travelers...

a blue-morning map
for those of us who may someday go









Here's another poet from my anthology, The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poets.

Born in Lahore, now in Pakistan, in 1921, Shiv K. Kumar was educated there at Forman Christian College  and at Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge. He taught  for many years at the University of Delhi and the University of Hyderabad, and was visiting professor at various British and American universities and colleges in the 1970s and 1980s. He has published scholarly criticism, prose fiction, a play as well as poetry in English. He was elected as a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1974.




Days in New York

Here I live in a garbage can.
The pile grows bigger each week
with the broken homes
splintered all around.
A black cat chases a shadow
down the passageway:
its whiskers presage another snowstorm.

The white of the negro maid's eyeballs
is the only clean thing here,
besides, of course, the quart gallon of milk
squatting at my door.
They won't believe it here
that Ganges water can work miracles:
in spite off the cartloads
of dead men's ashes and bones -

I open each morning my neighbor's Times,
whisked away from his door
before he stirs.
Gloved hands leave no fingerprints.
And a brisk review of the our yesterdays is no sin.

En route to perdition
I sometimes stop at Grand Central to piss.
Where else can one ease one's nerves
when the bladder fills up
like a child's balloon?
In the Gents, each in his stall,
we stand reduced to the thing itself.
Questions catapulted in the air:
"Are you a Puerto Rican"
A Jamaican? A Red Indian?"
I look for the feathers on my skull,
a band around my forehead.
And mumble, "No, a brown Indian,
from the land off Gandhi."
The strange briskly zips his soul
and vanishes past the shoeblack,
who turns to shine a lanky New Yorker
swaddled in the high chair like Lincoln.
Incidentally, there are not beggars in Grand Central.
Only eyes, eyes,  eyes,
staring at lamp-posts.
Back in my den after dusk
I band-aid the day's bruises.
Outside the window perches the grey sky,
an ominous bird wrapped in nuclear fog.

At night the Voices of America
break in upon my tenuous frequency,
intoning the same fact three times,
till the sediment grips the Hudson's soul.
But my soul is still my own.
For, every Sunday morning, I descend
into purgatory,
the basement where the laundromats
gulp down nickles,
to wash all our sins.
But the brown of my skin defies
all bleachers.
How long will this eclipse last?









Here's another old poem. People from further north just don't understand the truth of cold. They just live too close to it, like you don't see ugly in a camel when you need one to cross the desert.





astonished by the cold

those of us
born and raised
in lands were days are hot
and nights are warm
are always
astonished by the year's first winter cold,
stepping out our front door
into the dark
of an early winter morning,
stepping into a cold
that seems universal,
cold that stretches from the dirt
beneath our feet
to the furthest star
we can see -

a transformed
universe we see,
cold as the meat locker
at the grocery store
where we earned
our first wages -
it just doesn't seem
reasonable
that the world all around
could ever be as cold
as that locker,
with beef quarters
hanging on hooks
in the ceiling, chicken
frozen in boxes
on icy shelves

growing up
in a world were
cold has a cost per
kilowatt hour, we
can't help wondering
who's paying the bill
for  all this cold








Next is a poem by a new book in my library, Burning, a book of poems by Ocean Vuong.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam, Vuong is a student at Brooklyn College and, even so young, author of several books and recipient of many honors, including four Pushcart Prize nominations.




Kissing in Vietnamese

My grandmother kisses
as if bombs are bursting in the backyard.
where mint and jasmine lace their perfumes
through the kitchen window,
as if somewhere, a body is falling apart
and flames are making their way back
through the vessels in a young man's thigh,
as if to walk out the door, your torso
would dance with exit wounds.
When my grandmother kisses, there would be
no flashy smooching, no western music
of pursed lips, she kisses as if to breathe
you inside her, nose pressed to cheek
so that your scent pearls into drops of gold
inside her lungs, as if while she holds you,
death also, is clutching your wrist.
My grandmother kisses as if history
never ended, as if somewhere,
a body is still
                                falling apart.











These are two  short poems I wrote on consecutive days last  week. They fall into the category of poems written because I had to write something.

Sorry, but that's what I've got.





bullcorn

I know many things about
many things
but don't know bullcorn about
a lot more

often I can't
tell the difference
so be careful
what you ask me


mountain man

born to be a
mountain man,
exiled to the flatlands
most of my life

living in the hills now,
breaking the endless horizons,
but  poor substitutes for majestic
mountain  peaks

I've trod the valleys dreary, even floor,
low
and uninspiring...

and so crave a mountain's
summit, high against the sky,
a peak, waiting
for a man like me to climb







Next, I have two poets from the anthology.


The first is by Hira Bansode.

The poet was born in 1939 and has a master's degree in Marathi. She is one of the new Dalit women poets who became prominent in Maharashtra in the 1980s. She has been active in the subaltern women's movement for a number of years.




Woman

She, the river,
said to him, the sea:
               All my life
               I've been dissolving myself
               and flowing towards you
               for your sake
               in the end it was I
               who turned into the sea
               a woman's gift
               is as large as the sky
                       but you went on
                       worshipping yourself
                       you never thought
                       of becoming a river
                       and merging
                       with me

(Translated from Marathi by Vinay Dhqarwadker)



The second poet is Archana Varma, born in 1946, is a poet and writer. An MA in Hindi from Allahabad University, she teaches Hindi at Miranda College (Delhi University).







Man

Water on a slope
will run downhill, they said
with an air of finality..
That is, if water is water.

They didn't say that soil on a slope
if it's really soil
will soak up water.
That a green carpet of grass
will sprout, covering the slope.
It may lie covering the slope
but it will turn its face skywards.
That is, if grass is really grass.

We're all standing on a slope.
This was the topic of discussion
that evening. Water
can only flow downwards.
This was the conclusion.
Trees were not discussed at all.
They may spring up
at the bottom of the slope
but they grow upwards.
They bigger they grow
the easier they're uprooted.
That is, if trees are really trees.

But the water
wasn't water. And the grass
wasn't grass. Or the trees,
trees. But the topic
wasn't water, or  grass, or trees.
It was man, and about him
no one said a word.

(Translated from Hindi byAruna Sitesh and Arlene Zide)








Next from my library I have a poem by Cynthia Ruth  Lewis, from the book Sirens - Five Femme Fatale Poets, a collection, as the title suggests of five women poets who are not  so much interested in taking prisoners. The book was published in 2008 by Sisyphus Press.

Lewis, at the time of publication, was 42 and was living in Chicago. Her self-written bio says, "She finds great comfort in her bitterness and rage and doesn't hesitate to let it out on paper. She does have a soft side and unfailing rubs lotion into it several times daily to help balance things out." She has published in numerous journals  and has published one chapbook, Piss on Your Parade.

To demonstrate my concern for the delicate sensibilities of my readers, please note the poet's picture on the left is cropped. The original in book is a full frontal nude. You're welcome.




To Daddy's Perfect Little Angels

My father never called me "princess."
He never  called me "pumpkin"
or "peaches" or any of those other
nauseating endearments

he never even knew I was there

Am I bitter?
I used to be.
I learned to deal with it;
it's taught me  to be strong
and fight for what I want out of life
and not expect everything to be handed
to me on a silver fucking platter
because daddy said I'm his angel

Do I hate men?
Quite the contrary

In fact I enjoy thinking of how many
men I stole  from all you stuck-up prima donnas,
if only for the sex -
you know,  that "'thing" you won't give them
because you still believe your twats are
made  out of gold?

but this hard-hearted whore is a lot more
than just a hole with legs, honey,
and she's got many a tale to tell -

from the bed sheets to the pages
my life is an open book of hard-core poems
that you could never understand from
the plateau you're on:
your prim and proper Barbies wouldn't know how
to relax and have a good time if it bit you
right in your stick-filled ass,
and your idea  of a "poem" is a
shopping spree at the mall

You frigid pitches need to unwind a bit
and really get a bite out of life;
you have no idea what you're missing
behind your manicured nails and
credit cards...

an unsullied reputation sure 'ain't no fun,
and who the hell wants to die with a
block of ice wedged up her cunt anyway?








Most  of  the time when I start a poem I have no idea what  it's  going to be  about or how it will  end.  Often, like here, I look at  the end of a finished poem  and wonder how the hell did I get here. I  think it's a process of  letting my subconscious out the gate and following  where it  goes. I like it  when  that happens.



 barnyard fowl

 thinking of a story
of striving,
too  long  to lay down here...

my father's roots
passed on to me, diluted
as are all  such stories
of tough me and strong women,
by time and the ease of our life,  the  ease itself
requiring a different kind of tough,
a different kind of strength,
lest we  become the kind of people
our father's father's  father
fled...

faith, hope, charity,
these  virtues,second  nature
to those from whom  we came,.
dismissed  as cliches now
by us,  pampered and self-obsessed,  us
who seek a life in reality TV
as if they were real...

watch the new,see what we have become,
chickens, barnyard fowl descended
from eagles whose heights we threaten...

a poor substitute for the people
who bred us,
chickens,
finding  no road
they are not  afraid
to cross


 





Here are two  more poets  from the anthology of modern Indian poetry.


The first of the two  is Kunwar Narain.

Born in 1927, Narain is a large presence in Indian literature, often regarded the greatest living poet writing in Hindi.





Towards Delhi

I've seen him many times before
go dragging along in the direction
in which the horsemen are headed.

Both hands tied, in helplessness, once more
who was  he? I can't say
because only two tied hands
reached Delhi.

(Translated from Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker and Aparna  Dharwadker)



The next poet, Narayan Surve, was born in 1926. Orphaned and abandon at a very early age, he grew up on the streets of Mumbai. He taught himself to read and write and published his first collection of poetry in 1962. Supporting himself as a school  teacher, he was active in his support of the workers' union movement. Also a supporter of the the Soviet Union, he was championed there as well as in other Eastern Bloc countries as well and his home country. H died of advanced age in 2010.




Lifetime

A whole lifetime assigned to me:
even the light when I was born
was assigned to me;
I said the things I was assigned to say.
Cursing under my breath,
I walked the street assigned to me;
I came back to the room
assigned to me;
I lived  the life  I was assigned to live.
They say we go to heaven
if  we follow the path  assigned to us.
Between the four pillars assigned to us
I spit:
            there.








         
I spent the morning with my editor who turned over to me the edited and proofed manuscript for my next book. I hadn't planned this, but it turns out the next poem, written in 2011, is included in the book.

So here it is, a sneak preview of New Days and New Ways, due out sometime before the end of the year. It's not the best I got, but it's pretty okay.




it is hard

sick -
slept all day,
dreams of when
I made things happen
sweet
it was in my
dreams

~~

watching
the blind cat
bounce
like a pin ball
from wall to wall
until she finds her way;
soft bounces,
her pink nose against the wall,
then turn

sometimes
a turn into a bedroom
that goes nowhere,
marooned
in the dark
beyond her personal dark
until I find her
sitting,
waiting for the world
to make sense again, then
I take her
where I think she wants to go

~~

doctor appointment today,
five and a half minutes, she will  give me
new pills
and four and a half minutes
of advice -

I will take the first
ignore
the second...

young and pretty
when does she know
about getting old

~~

I
find comfort
in my regular place
around my regular people

why
do I ever think
I need more

~~

I
find comfort
in thinking off other places,
other people,
where I can be
the mysterious stranger
in the back of the
room

things
I might not ever see before
or since

people
who know even less about me
than I know  about
them

~~

it is
hard
to be happy

young
or old, it is hard
to know
the true nature
of happiness
from temporary
desire

~~

it is
hard
to  live in a world
where  nothing happens
unless you make it








This poem from the week's anthology is by Vinay Dharwadker, born in 1954.

With a PhD. earned at the University of Chicago, the poet is an Associate Professor at the the University of Wisconsin (Madison) where he teaches Indian languages and literature at the South Asia Center. In addition to collections of his own poetry, he has published translations in various languages of South Asia.





New Delhi, 1974

The city has spread quietly, suddenly. Everywhere
it  springs up, this futile architecture, its garish forms

shuffled and heaped, its grass sprouting sparse
and indifferent, its women brittle with paint,

it wrists young and hairless, dipped into the pool
where gold reflections rise, quiver at the rims of its eyes.

The old scalps are dry, each hair has lost its root,
and the mouth that rehearsed its verses in these streets

now is elsewhere. The monuments are black, rain black
and shoulderless, and the plains that once stretched

green towards the south are grey with dust and grime.
The old have nowhere to go now, in this new

city they haven't built, and the impatient young
are idle, and don't know where to turn.










Another short piece from last week.






the rules

I had some wild days
and nights
until I married
and my wife 'splained
the rules
like they never been
'splained
before

now
my only vices are coffee
and poetry

I think I've got the coffee
down

still working on the poetry









Last from my library, here are two poems by Tom Kimmel, from his book, The Sweetest and the Meanest, published 1n 2006 by Point Clear Press.

Kimmel, born in 1953 in Memphis, is a singer/songwriter and poet. A 1975 graduate of the University of Alabama, his songs have been recorded by singers from Johnny Cash and Joe Cocker to Lind Ronstadt, and have been featured in a number of TV series and movies.





Hippies

I watch the construction workers in my neighborhood
disembark from their vehicles,
long hair beneath ball caps
streaming ponytails down their backs.

They sport scraggly, untrimmed beards
below sunburned faces,
looking for all the world like the most radical,
dope-smoking, acid dropping
back-to-the-earth hippies of my youth.

As I drive past I imagine them saying,
We are bound in many ways.
Here are ways we are free.


Back to Heaven

I love you like rain loves
a summer sidewalk.
I cannot stay here
but the warmth of
your rough surface,
as I embrace you
momentarily - even
as I begin to move
(rightfully, unavoidably)
toward more welcoming,
familiar ground -
changes me in the
warming, sending a
part of me back
to heaven.







This is an old piece I wrote July, 2007. It's in a form I called "post-it notes." And that's how they were written, on postage notes while at work on scoring state assessment tests.







post-it notes

small dogs
nip
at heels
with tiny
yips
yaps
and sharp
little teeth
white
shinning

---

pitty pat
pitty
pat
little baby
footprints
fresh from
the bath

---

this is like
a note
I would pass
when I was
fifteen
in fits of
abbreviated
angst

---

I love
you
in little
yellow
flashes off
sticky note
passion

---

crowd murmurs
in a large room
hundreds
of stories
shattered
into random
word pieces

---

if you find this
know
I was 
thinking
of you
way back
when








The last  poet from this week's anthology is Sudama Panday, more commonly known as Dhoomil, was born in 1935. Known as the angry young man of Hindi poetry because of his protest poetry and revolutionary writings. He published only one collection of his poetry before his death in 1975. A second collection was published posthumously in 1979 to great acclaim and honors.





The  City,  Evening, and an Old Man: Me

I've taken the last  drag
and stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray,
and now I'm a respectable man
with all the trappings of civility.

When I'm on vacation
I don't hate anyone.
I don't have  any protest march to join.
I've drunk all the liquor
in the bottle marked
FOR DEFENCE SERVICES ONLY
and thrown it away in the bathroom.
That's the sum total of my life.
(Like every good citizen
I draw the curtains across my windows
the moment I hear the air-raid siren.
These days it isn't the light outside
but the light inside that's dangerous.)

I haven't done a thing  to deserve
a statue whos unveiling
would make the wise  men of this city
waste a whole busy day.
I've been sitting in a corner of my dinner plate
and leading a very ordinary life.

What I inherited citizenship
in the neighborhood of a jail
and gentlemanliness
in front of a slaughter-house.
I've tied them both to my convenience
and taken  them two steps forward.
The municipal government has taught me
to  stay on the left side of the road.

(To  succeed in life you don't need
to read Dale Carnegie's book
but to understand traffic signs.)

Other than petty lies
I don't know the weight of a gun.
On the face of the traffic policeman
doing his drill in the square
I've always seen the map of democracy.

And now I don't have a single worry,
I  don't have to do a thing.
I've reached the stage in life
when files begin to close.
I'm sitting in my own chair on the veranda
without any qualms.
The sun's setting on the toe of my shoe.
A bugle's  blowing in the distance.
This is the time when the soldiers come back,
and the possessed city
is now slowly turning its madness
into windowpanes and lights.

(Translated from Hindi  by Vinay Dharwadker)










Here are two poems from very early 2008. The poems feature our best furry friends, Reba, the border collie, and Kitty Pride, the calico. Both had to be put down earlier this year as age and illness overtook them. They were with us for many years, Reba for about 20 years and Kitty about 15, and will be remember for just as long.






weather woes

it's 35 degrees
with a fine mist
blown in lateral
sheets
by a brisk north
wind

it's not the coldest
night this year
but it is cold
enough
to keep me inside

I try to break the news
to Reba
that she won't get
her walk tonight
and I can tell
she's not understanding
it at all

unlike Kitty Pride
who's been hiding
under the bed
since I got home
lest I grab her
and fling her into
outdoor
misery

Reba
has no thought
of weather

in her canine way
she knows only
day and night
and each one
that comes
comes
new in
every way
with no relation
to  the ones
that came before
and weather
is just stuff that
happens
of no interest
or consequence
in the dog-view
of the universe

but she accepts
as she always
accepts
and goes
quietly to her bed
head and tail
hung low to the floor
like an
innocent condemned
then denied the grace
of a last
meal
woe
woe
woe is me
her body cries
with each mournful step

I will make it up
to her tomorrow
with a slow pace
that allows
a double sniff
at every
tree


the master

I just let
the cat out
to do her morning
duty

it's 20 degrees
and raining

she was back
at the door
again
wanting in
before
I could leave
the room

she is a master
in the winter
flash
poop-n-cover
competition








Check back in a couple of weeks,  I'm taking a vacation.

Meanwhile:

 


As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and me.
 

And I haven't mentioned it lately, but I'm allen itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:







Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, eBookPie, and Kobo (and, through Kobo,retail booksellers all across America and abroad)





´╗┐Poetry




Places and Spaces





Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around





Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Short Stories



Sonyador - The Dreamer



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