I Could Be...   Friday, May 10, 2019








I could be...

I could be racing my
Stutz Bearcat
through the high mountain
passes
of Abrakazam
if I wanted to be, or trading
tequila shots
with the Duchess del Swirl

I could do that...

or I could be riding
hell for leather
across the rocky steppes
of Kerikombati,
or eating
roast
pig
on the pristine white sands
of Jazzamakada de Mir,
or attending a Hollywood
premier
with the bountifully
bodacious
Hungarian star of the evening,
Lotta Shigotta

or
I could go
hang gliding over the deep red canyons
of Taihtagankstan, if I wanted,
or I might pilot my
jumbo Lear
to a birthday bash
for the Prince of Cisco-Ferlinghetti...

lots of other stuff
like that
 I could be doing today...

but I have a poem to write first,
then the new Harry Potter movie
that opened just last night, I could
take my niece to that,
and there's my geraniums that need
some watering, and a whole drawer full
of socks needing emergency organizational
attention

important stuff...

real life.

real life stuff
that proves I am living

and not just part
of someone else's
Stutz Bearcat
dream









A few more poems from my library this time, and my own work from 2011, when I seemed to be more often than not in long-winded, deep-think mode.

Reminding me of Eric Severid, who some may recall did a nightly editorial on CBS evening news. Within the news department it was referred to as the "big think" feature. After Severid died, the responsibility for the daily editorial fell to a hereto unknown reporter, was a mousy-looking fella in contrast to Severid's broad-shouldered, square-jawed visage. Following "big think," he was referred to by many as "little think."

I know that is irrelevant, but it's sometimes nice to be old and know stuff like that.



Me
I could be...



Me

fat lady with a parasol passes



Me

coffeehouse beauty



Simon J. Ortiz

I told you I like Indians



Hettie Jones

In the Eye of the Beholder



Me

my Russian lessons


L. D. Knowlton
Luminous Treasure



Me

pert



Kitasono Katue 

Oval Ghost



Me

the atheist defends Jesus from those who appropriate his name



Me

old man on an autopsy table



Sholeh Wolpe

Suicide
On Reading Rumi


Me
unlike some, I've been born only once



Me

all brothers of all brothers


Bruch Weigl
Blues in the Afterworld



Me

a product of serendipity



Me

unreliable fictions


Julia B. Levine
Rain at Night



Me

why heaven is better than hell



D. A. Powell

[every man needs a buddy who'll do]



Me

there is a field










The saying  "It's not over until the fat lady sings" was coined, complete with the implied opera reference, was coined a long time ago by a local sports reporter with the now defunct daily, The San Antonio Light. It was also the inspiration for this poem from 2011.




fat lady with a parasol passes

ambulance

then firetruck

then another ambulance


morning rush

becomes morning parking lot

four lanes across


crash on the interstate

going west


fat lady

with a parasol

passes
on a bicycle

fat feet pumping

on the pedals


singing


so I guess it's officially over

for someone









About a coffeehouse beauty.




coffeehouse beauty

tall
slender
high cheekbones
sensuous lips

beautiful hands and feet,
slim graceful fingers,
the thing I notice first, as if
her hands and feet
were the base
upon which all the rest of her beauty
grew

like a model...

exotic looking
in face and form,
vaguely foreign,
South American, light skin,
dark eyes,
native,
I immediately think,
of the vast Argentine
pampas,
owner of many
fast and handsome
horses...

I am usually too shy
to ask people to pose
for me and my camera, but
if ever I did ask someone, I'd
want her to be
first

except
she's with her boyfriend,
not nearly good enough for her
I can tell,
but
large
and fierce, exuding certain possession
of all that beauty and
unwillingness
to share

a man for whom
there is no abstraction
in life beyond
""MINE!"

and my commitment
to beauty
in this instance
is most entirely insufficient












First from my library, two poets from The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, a huge anthology published by Thunder's Mouth Press in 1999.



First from the anthology, Simon J. Ortiz.



I told you I like Indians

You meet Indians everywhere.

Once, I walked into this place -
Flagler Beach, Florida,
you'd never expect it -
a bar some old people ran it.

The usual question, of course,
"You're an Indian, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am." I'm an Indian alright,
Wild, ignorant, savage!
And she wants me to dance.
Well, okay, been drinking beer
all the way from Hollywood.
We dance something.

You're Indian, aren't you?
Yeah, jesus christ, almighty,
I'm one of them.

"There's an Indian around here."
What? And in walks a big Sioux.
Crissake, man, how's relocation brother?
He shakes my hand. Glad to meet you.
I thought I was somewhere else.
We play the ping pong machine, drink beer,
once in a while dance with the old lady.

I like Indians.

I told you
You meet Indians everywhere.


Also in the anthology, Hettie Jones.


In the Eye of the Beholder

Tonight she brings
                          eaters!

         little black boys with purple tongues
         in the City College mulberry trees

         in Times Square a Muslim woman
         munching a Mars bar under her veil

These are Kellie's pictures you see

                      she sees
                      through
       
                         her shining
                  black                eyes










A little bit of autobiographical recollection. The old czarists who tried to teach me Russian, had they been still alive, would not have been happy with the immediate aftermath of the fall of communism even though they lived their life expecting it and waiting for it. Not until the rise of Putin, a new Czar to replace the one they lost a century ago would they have celebrated.




my Russian lessons

I was taught
by Russian refugees
from the 1917 revolution,
the most elite
of the Czar's guard,
defeated,
humiliated by the mob,
fled, many to Algeria,
where they applied their
military talents
to the French Foreign Legion
until that enterpise, too,
was lost,
most of them,
when I knew them,
living in the past, their golden age
that ended fifty years earlier,
living out their last years
teaching Russian to American
Air Force recruits and draftees who did
not understand, did not comprehend
their military ethos or the glory
and honor of their imperial past...

they lived in the past
as their young students
lived in the day,  certain -
as the young recruits were
certain their good times would
never end  - certain that their
good time would return, that the mob
would turn, that  even after so many years
the tide would rise up, the communists
overthrown, and they, the inheritance
of their people, would no long be retired
at a Midwestern university, teaching
the coarse and unworthy, but
would be once again the princes
of the realm, glittering and golden as of old...

there's nothing wrong
wit enjoying memories
of the best times past, the danger
is to live with those memories,
thinking you can make the happen
again, come again just as they
used to be, unwilling to accept the grim
turn of the wheel that is time, the gristmill
that turns all the best and worst of the past
do dust blowing in history's
unremitting wind...

another fifty years now
from those days of my own youth,
I know there is some of the czarist officer
in me, too much in me,
as in the hour at night when I slip
these days and return to my own best times,
relive those times and, more than that,
extend them to a new day that could be
if memory's dust could be made a power
beyond the force of gritty and hollow wind -
it is a dead end, that hour
a repudiation of the real I have made
and the world
I live it in...

better for me to look to the lesson of
Fyodor, round little white mustachioed Fyordor,
only a cadet when the end came, fleeing
to Algeria like the Colonels, but, unlike them,
putting aside dreams of the glory
that might have been his,
finding his way in music instead, becoming
a bandleader, playing for years, leader of an official
ship's band, a life, with his little moustache,
on luxury liners crossing the Atlantic,
east to west, west to east, then
retiring, teaching, writing his memoirs,
paper piled two feet high
in his closet,
recording a life that always looked forward,
never looked back...

Fyodor, a champion for us who bury ourselves
in past glories, who see too little beyond
the day before last, a life that sees to much
of the sun's setting, too little of it's morning
rebirth...

grand old Fedya, teaching me
my most important Russian
lessons














This poem is by my poet-friend L. D. Knowlton, taken from his book, Fogartyville Cafe, published in 2014.




Luminous Treasure

Caph, Schear, Nevi,
and Segin slide

northwestward, over Oak Hill
only to elongate as Betelgeuse

Rigel, and Bellatrix rise
to apogee: a stellar tumescence

of the gods. They hunt Cassiopeia's
fabled jewels. The Queen

throne-bound upside down
for claims of being more

beautiful than all Nereids,
I hear her faint laughter.










I can't do anything about the weather, but in 2011 I could write about it. I wrote about it a lot in 2011, a very dry year when every drop of rain was precious.




pert

Sunday morning,
early,
breakfast,
pert new waitress,
young and pert, highly pert,
exuberantly pertish,
by the time I finish my two eggs over easy
I'm feeling myself
the world's first victim
of perticide...

not that I have anything
against
pert, its just that pert
is like oysters,
okay at the right time, but
never okay
first thing in the morning

sullen
works best in the early stages
of morning, then rejection and rage
at the chirping crickets and singing birds,
easing into dispassionate
disapproval of daylight, followed by the slow
settling into acceptance, then, moments of tentative
cheer, and, finally, no earlier than 10:30 a.m.,
flashes of pert

that's the morning routine, as approved
by all manner of foreign and domestic early
risers of whatever race, whatever religion, whatever
ethnic and cultural presumptions - that's just,
in other words

THE WAY IT IS

someone
in a position of authority
needs to have a word
with this
girl

...

the side issue of premature pertocity
plumbed to its depths, this is the
place in the poem where a skilled
and experienced poet would gracefully
lay out a transitional bridge to the true
subject of this poem -

rain,
or rather,
lack of same...

perhaps a cleverly articulated transition,
such as:

as the great Roman philosopher
Plasticus the Elder
said
in his great treatise
on falling water,
"rain don't count
as rain
unless it falls on your house"

and,
while there are numerous
pertly exuberant people in this city
who claim it rained here
for the past two days, that misunderstanding
is solely the result of rain
falling on their houses, while it has not rained on my house
meaning , as far as I'm concerned, it hasn't rained
and probably won't ever again

and that is why the pert young waitress
who probably had rain on her house for the past two days
shouldn't be rubbing it in to those of us upon whose house
rain did not fall by being
so damn pert at such an early
hour













Next, also a huge anthology, Language for a New Century, subtitled "Contemporary Poetry For The Middle East, Asia, and Beyond"

The book was published by W. W. Norton in 2008.


Surrealist Japanese poet Kitasono Katue is the poet I selected from the book. Born in 1902 and died in 1978, he was the best known Japanese poet/artist in Europe and the U.S. during the middle twentieth century.



Oval Ghost

white straightline
pierce through
yellow cylinder
beside it
listening to
pure
piano
vanishing
within
blue egg
like your
nonexistent
glass
neck's
star

inside
death's
needle,
solitude
of opera
of eternity
wearing Turkish-red corsage
smashing
peppermint moon
transparent
non existent
you

(translated from the Japanese by John Solt)










For several years there were four preachers who had their breakfast near the table where  I had mine. The were religious scholars with knowledge and opinions that would not have sat well a t the church where I misspent my Sundays (not of my own accord) as a youth.

I always found their talk very interesting.




an atheist defends Jesus from those who appropriate his name

the church is a creation of Paul,
not Jesus,
says one of the religiosos
to the others

and in a flash
my mind is cleared
as all the contradictions
between the two thousand

years
of Christianity
and the thirty years
of Jesus

are explained -
Jesus, on one hand
claiming for himself no divinity,
(for how could he claim divinity

yet,
instruct us, the least divine
creature
in all of creation,

to be like him),
claiming the god of the Jews
not as his father,
but as love, and peace,

and forbearance,
for it is through forbearance,
he taught,
that freedom and justice will come,

the inheritance
of the meek
a joyful heart
and peace of the just -

Jesus,
the revolutionary Jew,
the greatest danger to his ministry
not the Roman or the other Jews,

but the church founded in his name
by the tax collector, Saul, who became Paul,
the evangelist, the mystic,
the counter-revolutionary

denier of the flesh
and human will...
and so, in Paul's church's teaching,
the favored creation became the lowest,

subject to the will and approval
of a revised Jesus,
an anti-Christ Christ
who calls upon his faithful

to grovel prostrate before
the ascendant
princes
of quarreling sects

and the dogmas
that debase
his
name









old man on an autopsy table

an old man,
long white hair,
large white handlebar moustache,
a cadaver lying
naked
on a table in a human anatomy class...

when did I hear of this old man?
did someone tell me a story of their
own experience?
did I read of him in a book?

I don't remember,
but I remember his long white hair
and his large handlebar moustache,
and imagine him,
naked on a slap
dead for many years
yet standing in as a monument
to the power of story and character,
for I remember him now,
have remembered him for almost as long
as I remember anything, remember him
for so long I don't remember
where the memory comes from...

though I don't know the name
the students of his body gave him,
I imagine his
voice -

in my time,
he might say,
I was a cowboy,
or a soldier, or a clerk,
or builder of great ships and tall buildings,
or a passer-by on a slow-traveling train,
long hair,
moustaches,
blowing
in the passing wind,
or a poet,
poems passing in the blowing wind...

but whoever
or whatever he was
there is magic in his useful
corpse,
magic in the air of this sterile room
where blood and bones
and flaccid organs
are catalogued, the intricacy of their
functions noted, the secrets
of the spirits vessel
marked

magic in the benevolence
of his purposeful death, his physical presence
most respectfully
rendered
into it constituent
parts














These two poem are by Sholeh Wolpe, taken from here book, The Scar Saloon, published by Red Hen Press in 2004.

Wolpe was born in Iran, but spent most of her teen years in the Caribbean and Europe, ending up in the U.S. where she earned a Masters Degrees in Radio-TV-Film at Northwestern University an Public Health at Johns Hopkins University. Her poems, translations, essays ad literary reviews have been published worldwide.




Suicide

     for Joe


The sunshine brazenly lounges on you headstone.
Three puffs of clouds sit lay in the sky.

I confess: I'm not angry with you - not you,
just with the head that rested itself intimately
against metal so brutal and cold.

I see a tree crying today, shedding her sap like rain.
Our distance so soon graduated to universes and beliefs.


On Reading Rumi

One sky, so many shades of blue.

But that's a lie.

The sky is black.

Light is a mad artist who drapes colors on everything.

But words have no need for light.

They shine on their own.

Here, I offer you Rumi's words.

See how blinding, how brilliant.










Sometimes I'm near struck wonder by the wonder that I am. This is another piece from 2011, a year in which it appears I did a lot of thinking about this kind of stuff.




unlike some, I've been born only once.

unlike some
I've been born only
once
and seeing as how
I feel like I made a pretty good
show
out of that one shot, feel
no need to be born
again

even though I recognize that,
on a deeper level,
I am a being of universal elements
and thus certain to be born
again
as I have been born
before uncounted, and uncountable times.
for the parts that make me
are as old as the universe
and so must be all the things
I've been, things
near to home and faraway-lost
in the vast unknown regions
where stardust still drifts -
vastly traveled are my parts,
so vastly travelled must I be as well, so
varied and old and well-traveled,
I am a marvel

look around you and the vast everything-ness
that we are, have been and will be
a part of and
consider how marvelous I am
and you as well

sometimes I think of the me that was a
daffodil,
how beautiful I was then, much more
beautiful than I am now,
though rooted and consequently
less curious than the proto-cat I was,
roaming with early felines
newly-created to hunt the me
that was the deer, or the beaver,
or the small mouse, hidden in high grasses,
or the grass I might have been or the wiggling
worm that fertilized the grass-of-me with my
worm droppings...

so many places I have been; so many being
I have been, so much more than twice-born
am I; so much more that twice-born
l will I be in the millennia ahead,
so much more to be,
so much longer to be them,
I can only imagine those who think of themselves
as more limited must be so very
jealous









More of my more mystical self from 2011.




all brothers of all brothers

yes,
it is true,
I talk to my animals...

even Reba
who can't hear me
but she can see my lips move

and know
she is on my mind, like the blind cat
knows she is not alone in the dark

when I stroke her head as I pass,
like the friendly nod
I exchange with people

I pass on the street
because we all need to know we are not
alone in the dark -

such an acknowledgement
of our shared journey we should
pass on the the creatures around us -

balm to repair the primordial weld that has bound us all
since creation, the weld that is separating now
as all become remote from the others...

if you believe in God, remember he created us all
as part of his plan and it is not our place
the redraw the blueprints of his creation;

if you do not believe in God,
remember instead
that we are all creatures at base

of common offspring, basic elements
that give us,
as our relatives

the snake, the bird, the fish in the ocean
the lion in the field, our neighbor
across the fence, the daffodil growing

wild as any creature on the meadow,
the earth beneath our feet
and the stars that shine over head

all bothers of all brothers
in our most basic
construction













This poem is by Bruce Weigl, from his book What Saves Us, published in 1992 by Triquarterly Books of Northwestern University Press.




Blues in the Afterworld

I remember a wild apple tree
alone in a field where deer had lain
and made a bed in the long leaves of grass
where I slept with a gun
in my hands
and woke in rain
misting on the leaves
and on the hard apple's redness
abandoned in the rattling branches.
I have to say
I put that gun down
and opened my pants
and touched myself.
The light made me do it,
the loneliness,
and brother crow said something
through the distant, broken trees
that sounded like a warning
and in a wild moment
outside myself
I was trapped in a room of flowers,
their smell too much to bear
like it must be for the dead.
Then the room was a boat
on which I sailed
into the hush of a green jungle.
Out of the time I was jangled,
out of space
but then just as quickly
delivered back to the empty field
to the bed deer had made
under red apples,
the world light now in some places
and in some places dark.












I've had a fairly successful life, achieving most of my goals, though that portion ended sooner than I wanted. A fact for which I am very grateful and for which I take very little credit.




a product of serendipity

I
am a product
of serendipity

being what I am
by virtue
of being where I was -

on the corner of this
or that
when the universe shifted

and I found myself
here
or there

like a coin flips
heads or tails. one time
a head

one time a tail
and there your are, heading
or tailing

as chance
provides direction,
all the factors that produce

heads or tails, win
velocity, force of toss,
a random anomaly in the

spin of the earth
in a spinning universe
producing one result or another

each result
producing successive flips,
additional spins

of the wheel
so that
I am here now with you

while elsewhere
I am without you while elsewhere
there is no you

there is no me
both of us disappeared
into the never-been

of colitis interrupters
or an angry spat that killed the mood
or strangers never met...

I know men
who claim the title
self-made -

champions instead,
gold medalists in the games
of self-delusion









An observation from my morning diner, 2011.




unreliable fictions

she's
kind of hefty,
well north of stout,
I'm saying,
but judging from the three eggs,
scrambled,
and stack of buttermilk pancakes
she's packing for breakfast,
it doesn't seem to bother her...

meanwhile,
being no lightweight
myself,
I stick to my more
responsible
nature
with porridge
in skimmed milk
and a single piece
of dry toast

and
feel quite
at peace with myself
for it,
judging not
the stout woman
for her pleasure in the moment,
finding it admirable
in fact,
to see her fortitude
in the face
of such tribulation
as her continuing absence
of a view of her feet,
jealous, a little,
of her full and hearty breakfast
in comparison
to my prisoner-of-war
rations

and though she seems
such a healthy, happy person,
despite
her disregard for her own well-being
and the feelings
of all the stoutish people
around her
sticking to their
dank dungeon swill
while she engages breakfast
like a skinny person,
it seems she mocks our own efforts
at adipose reduction,
which is why
we all
hate
that fat woman and
her three eggs, scrambled,
and full stack of buttermilk pancakes

damn
fat woman

and
on top of everything else
she will probably
outlive us
all















This poem is by Julia B. Levine, taken from her book, Ditch Tender, published by University of Tampa Press in 2007.




Rain at Night

The child's silence wakes you.

And how long has she slept here,
her dream like milk cooling?

Now you stand at the window, shivering
Rain grinds air into sugary phonemes.

Under the streetlight, inside the boundless halo
of light's crumbly grain,
your neighbor bends stiffly, lifts his newspaper.

Three a.m., long past what is legible,

he wears his dead wife's sweater,
too tight to button, sleeves midway p his arms.











Here's something different, a very short story from Sonyador, the Dreamer,"  my book of very short stories published in 2011.



Why Heaven is Better than Hell

Little Sonyador sits on the hard oak pew at St. Phineas Lutheran Church, the
same hard oak pew he sits on every Sunday morning, early church service,
Dad on one side, Mom on the other, Pastor Hardamaelar preaching hellfire
as he does every Sunday morning, every time he preaches.

The boy listens and imagines how hot and burning must be the fires of hell;
imagines his teacher, Missus Persker in hell - horns and pitchfork tail,
breathing fiery arithmetic problems.

And little Sonyador wants to be good, does not want to go to hell, does not
want to spend forever burning in old Missus Persker's class, writing the
same equations over and over again with her long, red-pointed claws on a
scratchy black-as-midnight-devil's blackboard. He wants to go to Heaven,
about which he knows little, since the Pastor hardly ever talks about it,
seemingly not particularly expectant that his ever-sinful congregants
would ever get there, choosing instead to prepare them for their almost certain
journey to eternal damnation

But Sonyador knows Missus Pesker is a devil -witch and will not be in
Heaven and that makes Heaven a lot better place to be than hell, the
brimstone place where she will surely return.

And then the sermon ends and the recessional song begins and little
Sonyador tries to sing like his father whose deep bass voice is like a floor on
which all the universe could rest, but all the boy can manager is a raspy
croak

"Sing right" his father says, "quit trying to be funny."









It's always best to hang out where your best friends go...




best friends forever

my wife
goes to church
on Sundays

I go to
breakfast
and think heretical
thoughts

the reason
why

most likely

she'll be in
heaven

in the end

and I'll be down below
with my best
friends
for-
ever















Last from my library, D. A. Powell, from his book Cocktails, published in 2004 by Graywolf Press.

Every poem in the book includes a reference to a movie. I don't understand the purpose of the reference or what it signifies, but I do not require myself to understand everything.




[every man needs a buddy. who'll do]

                       Making Love (1982,, Arthur Hiller, dir.)

every man needs a buddy.    who'll o
when his wife has gone to the in-laws

the evening had already been lowered.     he crossed
his legs in the manly way: outside

kids who  could have been his yelled
"you're out."    and "no sir!"

eddie's two-bit country-singer looks: not my usual
dish of icecream.     and since he's mom's best friend's
live-in daughter's hubbie.     the danger quickens

in the shed behind the natatorium: everyone knows
the device.     a meeting with the gardener's son

his voice rises and trembles: a steel guitar
the song of inalimengal marriage.     he slobbers

on the part of me that is not woman.     his throat
an undergarment: silky and inviting

"man o man o god o man"    no confusion
about gender.     or the home he boomerangs to:
the good she who holds his place at supper

a man returns to his wife.     I understand the geometry
this is no equilateral triangle: compliments are exchanged

featherriver honkytonk: in the back row I wait
so any life elapses under just such conditions:

no holidays.     no home.     relegated to odd nights
the front seat of his car in lieu of the conjugal bed

he will never take his boots off

*  *  *  *

"the act," he says.     meaning his career

I'm not sure the last six line are part of the earlier lines. They appear on the page following the rest of the poem which ends at the bottom of the previous page, appearing to me to it could be a poem on it's own. To my mind, the six lines certainly could be a very good stand-alone poem.









Closing this post with another religious-oriented poem. For an atheist I suppose I write a lot of these (or at least I did in 2011, but what could be more interesting to think about but the elements of eternity.




there is a field

Rumi says:

Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other

doesn't make any sense.

talking to a friend, she
a believer,
and me, not,
about the differences between
the old and the new testaments
of the Christian bible ,
when Rumi
intervenes -

the old testament,
the book of wrong-doing and right-doing
and the rites and strictures
of both,
an earth bound by the rules
of a creator
who lays out rules for everything
from how to pray
to what and when you eat

 the Christ
of the new testament
having no time for that,
a prophet
who has no time
for rules old or new,
a prophet of the field,
where wrong-doing
and
right-doing
lie together in the grass,
irrelevant, too much
world/time/life
to spend any of it
talking about them, field where
the great soul  over all
souls
cushions the heads
of both the right and the wrong,
the good and the bad,
requiring
only acceptance of that great soul
to nullify all the harsh and vengeful warnings
that came before

a precious dream,
even if not
my own











my comment button no longer works, so if you would like to comment on this post, email me at allen.itz@GMail.com. I appreciate hearing from readers.


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 to me



Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony accusatory, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad



Poetry

New Days & New Ways


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



Fiction

Sonyador - The Dreamer



                                                            

  Peace in Our Time








0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Archives
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
December 2017
January 2018
February 2018
March 2018
April 2018
May 2018
June 2018
July 2018
August 2018
September 2018
October 2018
November 2018
December 2018
January 2019
February 2019
March 2019
April 2019
May 2019
June 2019
July 2019
August 2019
September 2019
October 2019
November 2019
Links
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Tryst
Poems Niederngasse
BlazeVOX
Eclectica
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
zafusy
The Blogging Poet
Poetsarus.Com
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet