Two Little Things
Dale Houstman
Two Little Things
_________________
1.
Night, a letter, only
its sans serif peak encased
in pale metallic threads
wandered away
upon a boat’s reflection
full of anxious waiters
and haloed suitcases stacked
under the blue trees
which are literary
like varnished ropes.
2.
Day, a bloodstain
on the schoolgirl’s pigtail
maybe it’s a violin
embedded in a hand
an ornamental nova
or not
a van full of roses
bulging in a grocery bag
or not
What Rhyme is it?
"Dale Houstman" <dm...@citilink.com> wrote in message news:4021274C...@citilink.com...
You say "or not" as if you just don't care,
but I know you do.
You are seething inside.
Why not let it out?
ethe...@ns.sympatico.ca
wrote:
I prefer the first to the second. My problem is with the last line. I
think it might need a space between to work at all but it seems so
throw away after everything else.
Always a pleasure.
Joy
Joy Yourcenar
Mythologies: http://evolvingbeauty.com/myth
icon/graphy: http://evolvingbeauty.com/icon
"Why not walk in the aura of magic that gives to the small things of life their uniqueness and importance? Why not befriend a toad today?"
Germaine Greer
Dale Houstman
> Always a pleasure.
Thank you for the comments, and I think you're correct. But my "purity"
makes it difficult to admit that... Could you just say that I'm perfect
in every way, so Tommy the Twat can feel he is correct for just once?
I'm waiting.
dmh
>
Tarapia Tapioco
Two little things or not.
Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
Thourn Whaul
ȼǻ
---
What Rhyme is it?
> Thank you for the comments, and I think you're correct. But my "purity"
> makes it difficult to admit that... Could you just say that I'm perfect
> in every way, so Tommy the Twat can feel he is correct for just once?
Joy twit comes to he rescue, but not like she has any taste
dale..
Anyone who knows anything about poetry knows that this is pure crap.
What Rhyme is it?
> Two little things or not.
> Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
Can you name one?
I hosted his crap at one time, and it was all pretty uniform.
What Rhyme is it?
> Thank you for the comments, and I think you're correct. But my "purity"
> makes it difficult to admit that...
This is precious, but really is the way you are.
You really believe there is something to your posting, don't you?
Just once, elucidate one of them and indicate what is below
the surface beyond a random number generator and a pile
of index cards, you fraud.
Will Dockery
news:xInUb.21683$zo6....@newssvr25.news.prodigy.com...
It seems all his writing is shitty, from his posts in these threads, to...
unfortunately... his "poetry".
Will
Will Dockery
Fraud. That's the word. That's the best one word description of Hammes I've
seen.
Will
Dale Houstman
Tarapia Tapioco wrote:
>
>
> Two little things or not.
> Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
>
> Thourn Whaul
> ȼǻ
> ---
>
ALL my poems have form, and - in their way - march to a meander of
meter. Yet, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since modernism
stirred the post-war waters, and I don't feel compelled to wade in those
puddles.
And I've seen MANY worse poems in meter and bespangled with rhymes.
Poetry exists despite those strictures.
But all of us can do better.
dmh
Dale Houstman
Will Dockery wrote:
>
>
> It seems all his writing is shitty, from his posts in these threads, to...
> unfortunately... his "poetry".
> Will
>
>
The donkey thinks he's Pegasus.
dmh
Dale Houstman
Will Dockery wrote:
>
>
> Fraud. That's the word. That's the best one word description of Hammes I've
> seen.
> Will
>
>
Too bad Tommy Tinker was talking about me, you dolt!
dmh
What Rhyme is it?
> ALL my poems have form, and - in their way -
Right! ..a random number generator (you) applied to
a set of index cards.
Big fucking deal. You call that form??
> march to a meander of
> meter. Yet, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since modernism
> stirred the post-war waters, and I don't feel compelled to wade in those
> puddles.
You NEVER say a fucking thing, nor impart much feeling.
Your /turns of phrase/ are moderately interesting, occasionally,
but as a "work" it hangs together as well as confetti.
Your /turns of phrase/ are up there with some of the more interesting
things being said though. (unless I'm around, of course)
Even though you are shit, you are much higher quality shit
in some ways. In others you are more boring than teen angst.
> And I've seen MANY worse poems in meter and bespangled with rhymes.
> Poetry exists despite those strictures.
>
> But all of us can do better.
Right... But it is nice if you tried a little.
Your efforts are sloppy.
Dale Houstman
And yet he hosted it, and said he was "proud" to do so. At one time, he
also suggested I become his on-line poetry instructor. Who's the fraud?
The thing is, I gave TommyMook a lot of my time, doing artwork for
various little projects, and - before that - wasting the hours trying to
help him with his poetry, which was like trying to teach a raccoon to
play Liszt on a plate of spaghetti through a steel mesh.
This has little to do with the merit of anyone's poetic work - Tom can
dribble what he wants to about that, and no one with any integrity will
care. But it has a lot to do with all those old-time virtues such as
honor and politeness: TommyMommy is a gutless and rather debased human
being, incapable of poetry because he is incapable of self-examination.
I feel no great desire to talk to this syphilitic lemur any more: I've
tossed this rancid little slinkveal around enough and - frankly - he's
duller and stupider than I thought possible. In another post, he
attempts to avoid presenting supporting evidence for his laughable
little assertions by clumsily turning the tables, and saying I have to
prove my poetry isn't a fraud. But I didn't say it wasn't! So I don't
have to prove it one way or another.
At any rate, the work speaks for itself as does TommyDum's behavior.
dmh
What Rhyme is it?
"Dale Houstman" <dm...@citilink.com> wrote in message news:40224A0A...@citilink.com...
Sorry dale. ennis is a bigger fraud than you are
and Will must have gotten carried away.
What Rhyme is it?
"Dale Houstman" <dm...@citilink.com> wrote in message news:40224DF...@citilink.com...
>
>
> What Rhyme is it? wrote:
> >>Two little things or not.
> >>Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> >>Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
> >
> >
> >
> > Can you name one?
> >
> > I hosted his crap at one time, and it was all pretty uniform.
> >
> >
>
> And yet he hosted it, and said he was "proud" to do so. At one time, he
> also suggested I become his on-line poetry instructor. Who's the fraud?
To get anything out of you, one must butter you up.
Poetry is mostly hype, I used to pump yours, and you never
thanked me once.
I pump ennis' and he never thanked me, and is seemingly
jealous of my programming efforts, although I am thinking
he is just terminally bitter about his life failure, at this point.
I did butter you, and you /did/ act as my instructor.
I learned and was still buttering you when you
pulled your website.
You didn't like my Rickles bit, even though you are largely
my inspiration. (the way you initially harassed me with your
idiotic self-styled poesy farts).
> The thing is, I gave TommyMook a lot of my time, doing artwork for
> various little projects, and - before that - wasting the hours trying to
> help him with his poetry, which was like trying to teach a raccoon to
> play Liszt on a plate of spaghetti through a steel mesh.
The more important thing is to note that when it came down
to it, you said /fangered/ me first, so I stopped buttering the dale.
I never /expressed my true opinion/ before, since to do so would
have gotten me the petulant baby dale, and I had an agenda with you.
I used you well, and you could have used me, but you got /terribly hurt/.
> This has little to do with the merit of anyone's poetic work - Tom can
> dribble what he wants to about that, and no one with any integrity will
> care.
Sure they will, I'm as much of an authority on poetry as you are,
and much more talented.
> But it has a lot to do with all those old-time virtues such as
> honor and politeness: TommyMommy is a gutless and rather debased human
> being, incapable of poetry because he is incapable of self-examination.
Where is your honor and politeness?
I see a wimpy ex-online aquintance
that had no spine.
I even checked with you numerous times to make sure you were
OK with things, and you said you didn't see why people harassed me
like they did.
> I feel no great desire to talk to this syphilitic lemur any more:
And I don't even call you names. Just state my honest opinion about
your sawdust poetry, and pompous idiotic ideas on poetry.
Who is the baby, baby?
> I've
> tossed this rancid little slinkveal around enough and - frankly - he's
> duller and stupider than I thought possible. In another post, he
> attempts to avoid presenting supporting evidence for his laughable
> little assertions by clumsily turning the tables, and saying I have to
> prove my poetry isn't a fraud. But I didn't say it wasn't! So I don't
> have to prove it one way or another.
No, you just have to enjoy your time in Usenet poetry.
Have fun, sweetie, I do. :-)
Will Dockery
Fadeaway Encounter.
Fire, period.
Emily with Jesus in the garden,
talking about the werewolf of Peabody, and
Time, red haired angel, she's the
Dragon of Sandinista.
Machine works, life.
Sunset, outside. Pastel.
Lightbulb, inside. No electricity.
Burning desire, sets the stage for
Gunshots on Chesterfield avenue.
Speedball, murder winds.
Desert moon drops.
LaGrange premelt.
Emily at the stations of the cross.
Pastel sunset, then wine in the dark.
Nightmare notes,
bloody bathroom tiles.
Eos, another May baby, she carries the
Ragnarok brick.
Flying mystery,
Jesus on a joyride,
in frosty frizzy clouds.
There goes that pretty blind girl again.
Thinking about Jesus and Emily,
and of course the pretty blind girl.
-Will Dockery
Link: Irony Waves http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ironywaves
Will Dockery
>
> > ALL my poems have form, and - in their way -
>
> Right! ..a random number generator (you) applied to
> a set of index cards.
>
> Big fucking deal. You call that form??
Yeah, he might have form, but his content goes nowhere. The fucker's writing
donkey gibberish. What "form" he has is bad form.
>
> > march to a meander of
> > meter. Yet, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since modernism
> > stirred the post-war waters, and I don't feel compelled to wade in those
> > puddles.
>
>
> You NEVER say a fucking thing, nor impart much feeling.
Plus, he's a shitty writer.
> Your /turns of phrase/ are moderately interesting, occasionally,
> but as a "work" it hangs together as well as confetti.
Confetti that he shot too much of his self produced glue on. In other words,
a clear case of poetic masturbation.
> Your /turns of phrase/ are up there with some of the more interesting
> things being said though. (unless I'm around, of course)
>
> Even though you are shit, you are much higher quality shit
> in some ways. In others you are more boring than teen angst.
Don't remind him of teen angst. He's the type that probably got his ears
thumped. No, wait, that's Michael Cook.
> > And I've seen MANY worse poems in meter and bespangled with rhymes.
> > Poetry exists despite those strictures.
> >
> > But all of us can do better.
I'm thinking anyone can do better.
> Right... But it is nice if you tried a little.
>
> Your efforts are sloppy.
There's drool on his chin.
Will
Will Dockery
Yeah, two fuckers with the initials "DM" must have thrown me off... but
they're both two frauds in a nutsack.
Will
Will Dockery
He's closer to Foster Brooks than Don Rickles.
Tarapia Tapioco
Dale Houstman <dm...@citilink.com> wrote:
>
>
>
> Tarapia Tapioco wrote:
>
> >
> >
> > Two little things or not.
> > Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> > Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
> >
> > Thourn Whaul
> > ---
> >
>
> ALL my poems have form, and - in their way - march to a meander of
> meter. Yet, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since modernism
> stirred the post-war waters, and I don't feel compelled to wade in those
> puddles.
>
> And I've seen MANY worse poems in meter and bespangled with rhymes.
> Poetry exists despite those strictures.
>
> But all of us can do better.
>
> dmh
I remember you posted once a poem that mentioned a marble ashtray.
They were very neat couplets(triplets) as verses, not rhymed and full on in "your" style.
The surreal usually vanishes once you know the poet and he keeps his/her style.
But I also think it's an excuse to rush spill an idea into verses.
Sometimes later you eventually get hurt as your ideas get adopted or
reworked into a finer expression.
Those that say they don't care mainly already had something out of it.
In worse case a few dollars more in their wallet.
My not care approach is to hang on to sanity towards anything transcendental
that each poem published here by me, might try to evoke.
So far it continues to be a road of discovery.
For some this all might sound up nose, but give it a try,
post a poem then sort out your feelings from the aftermath.
If you don't get an reply, keep on working it's suppose to be a workshop.
If you come here only to comment, well don't blame poets for the butterfly effect.
Thourn Whaul
遣囿
---
Jenny
This contains so many interesting phrases that
I've read it over and over trying to understand
its meaning. Is it meant to have a meaning? I
feel frustrated and ignorant of poetry, as I know
that you are a fine craftsman---but the phrases
slip away in separate glimmers in that boat's
reflection, and I'm left with nothing I can
hold. I think you would have more readers
if you were not so enigmatic. Yet I find similar
obscurity in much of today's published poetry. I
wish someone would give me the key! (If there is one.)
I don't ask for meaning in music or painting. Yet
poetry is an art of language, which by definition
seems as though it ought to communicate,even if
with difficulty. Can you or someone answer this?
Jenny
ethe...@ns.sympatico.ca
wrote:
Okay, like "all hail Dale's unsurpassed perfection in passing"?
>
>I'm waiting.
Let me know if that's not enough of a testament. I make almost as good
a witness as I do a minion.
Dale Houstman
That will do - for now. But we frauds are apt to remain unsatisfied by
mere groveling, and hunger for the construction of monuments. I see an
equestrian statue in which I'm hand-feeding pieces of Tom's degraded
flesh to a carnivorous avatar of Mr. Ed. Coming out the other end?
Wooden nickels...
>
>
>
>>I'm waiting.
>
>
> Let me know if that's not enough of a testament. I make almost as good
> a witness as I do a minion.
>
Just don't look straight at me, unless you want to be a blind poet.
dmh
seremba
The first little thing seems to be more defined than the second,
which is interesting really considering things seem so much clearer in
daylight. It could be the two 'or not' (s) which gives it a feeling of the
unexplained. I like the letter image, ( much better than an envelope )'sans
serif peak' is quite lovely. Did you mean 'literally' or is some literary
message evading me? The second little thing opens with such a stark
contrast, which is good although the ambiguity is questionable. Which
makes me ask maybe 'Two Little Things' or not.
S.
What Rhyme is it?
> > Okay, like "all hail Dale's unsurpassed perfection in passing"?
>
> That will do - for now.
Gee Maaaa, a pathetic nutcase who grasps for anything.
I say that you post randomly generated sawdust,
and additionally /have an attitude/
(due to being a failure in your chosen career).
Big fucking deal.
..and now fat Joy hails you.
HAAAAAAAA
What Rhyme is it?
"Tarapia Tapioco" <comes...@ntani.firenze.linux.it> wrote in message news:d7f3204367bb5f25...@firenze.linux.it...
Dale is simply over sensitive, and is totally nuts about his
estimation of himself.
If you don't feed his delusion he calls it half-human.
Dennis no doubt called Dale on his sawdust, and they must
have had a good time. Links??
What Rhyme is it?
> This contains so many interesting phrases that
> I've read it over and over trying to understand
> its meaning. Is it meant to have a meaning?
No, it is randomly generated from index cards.
At least that is what Dale told me he did.
> I feel frustrated and ignorant of poetry, as I know
> that you are a fine craftsman---but the phrases
> slip away in separate glimmers in that boat's
> reflection, and I'm left with nothing I can
> hold.
I say the same thing, only more strongly.
Your observation is much more correct than any
idiot-prose Dale comes back with.
> I think you would have more readers
> if you were not so enigmatic. Yet I find similar
> obscurity in much of today's published poetry. I
> wish someone would give me the key! (If there is one.)
> I don't ask for meaning in music or painting. Yet
> poetry is an art of language, which by definition
> seems as though it ought to communicate,even if
> with difficulty. Can you or someone answer this?
Poetry comes in various degrees of "ambiguity".
Dale takes it to the point of the ridiculous, where
there really isn't any point conveyed.
Dale hopes he is conveying feelings/moods/blah
get his latest pomegranate theory, but he is so in love
with his words that he lost objectivity long ago.
Everyone is like you, and just shakes their heads,
and moves on...
>
> Jenny
>
>
ethe...@ns.sympatico.ca
wrote:
How many feet on the ground?
>>
>>>I'm waiting.
>>
>>
>> Let me know if that's not enough of a testament. I make almost as good
>> a witness as I do a minion.
>>
>
>Just don't look straight at me, unless you want to be a blind poet.
>
>dmh
backing from the room with my eyes averted from your frumious
magnificence.
Dennis M. Hammes
>
By six men?
No?
Too bad for his neighbors.
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
/Ite, ipse ficara/.
http://scrawlmark.org
Dennis M. Hammes
Gee, Little Willy, what a thing to call your ballZ.
They "let you down," again?
Dennis M. Hammes
Wow, me too.
A Witness showed up at my door just last week, and the neighbors
said it was the best filet minion they'd ever had.
Dennis M. Hammes
Not a good thing to be in the Good Old U.S. of A., where /everybody/
wants to hit a Homer. But she might get away with it in Canada.
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> >
> > That will do - for now.
>
> Gee Maaaa, a pathetic nutcase who grasps for anything.
See, Dale, it /was/ a handbag, and he /did/ have a mirror in it.
>
> I say that you post randomly generated sawdust,
> and additionally /have an attitude/
> (due to being a failure in your chosen career).
>
> Big fucking deal.
>
> ..and now fat Joy hails you.
>
> HAAAAAAAA
Dennis M. Hammes
Why not? He thinks angels have wings, too...
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> What Rhyme is it? wrote:
> >>Two little things or not.
> >>Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> >>Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
> >
> >
> >
> > Can you name one?
> >
> > I hosted his crap at one time, and it was all pretty uniform.
> >
> >
>
> And yet he hosted it, and said he was "proud" to do so. At one time, he
> also suggested I become his on-line poetry instructor. Who's the fraud?
I think we see here what happened to his other "business
relationships."
>
> The thing is, I gave TommyMook a lot of my time, doing artwork for
> various little projects, and - before that - wasting the hours trying to
> help him with his poetry, which was like trying to teach a raccoon to
> play Liszt on a plate of spaghetti through a steel mesh.
>
> This has little to do with the merit of anyone's poetic work - Tom can
> dribble what he wants to about that, and no one with any integrity will
> care. But it has a lot to do with all those old-time virtues such as
> honor and politeness: TommyMommy is a gutless and rather debased human
> being, incapable of poetry because he is incapable of self-examination.
Tsk. Bishop Thomas is incapable of poultry because he's incapable
of /language/.
The same thing happened to his "programming career."
He's perfectly capable of self-examination, as long as he rewrites
the principal terms of the resport.
Of course, you're quite right in that that's /why/ he rewrites the
"self-report" terms of (pometic) language. And of course it's why
he appears incapable of self-examination, because he is incompetent
of the /report/ of self-examination.
But Bishop Thomas has examined himself /most carefully/. And has
found there a Programmer, a PO-et, Heart Felt, even a Yacht.
Some day he will be good enough at the technique to find legs that
work, too.
Just ask him.
>
> I feel no great desire to talk to this syphilitic lemur any more: I've
> tossed this rancid little slinkveal around enough and - frankly - he's
> duller and stupider than I thought possible.
A flatworm, too, is an empty tube of warm Spam with a sucker on one
end and a crapper on the other. Mommies think there's /such/ a
difference...
She even /told/ him so.
> In another post, he
> attempts to avoid presenting supporting evidence for his laughable
> little assertions by clumsily turning the tables, and saying I have to
> prove my poetry isn't a fraud. But I didn't say it wasn't! So I don't
> have to prove it one way or another.
>
> At any rate, the work speaks for itself as does TommyDum's behavior.
>
> dmh
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> "Dale Houstman" <dm...@citilink.com> wrote in message news:40224DF...@citilink.com...
> >
> >
> > What Rhyme is it? wrote:
> > >>Two little things or not.
> > >>Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> > >>Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Can you name one?
> > >
> > > I hosted his crap at one time, and it was all pretty uniform.
> > >
> > >
> >
> > And yet he hosted it, and said he was "proud" to do so. At one time, he
> > also suggested I become his on-line poetry instructor. Who's the fraud?
>
> To get anything out of you, one must butter you up.
You have Dale confused with your toast.
No wonder you can't write a pome.
Or a program.
>
> Poetry is mostly hype, I used to pump yours, and you never
> thanked me once.
>
> I pump ennis' and he never thanked me,
Why should I?
1. I never asked you to.
2. When you pump my poultry, listeners "consider the source" and
I have that much more to overcome.
3. That my poultry has feet is my fault, of course, but that you
don't, isn't.
> and is seemingly
> jealous of my programming efforts,
1. I am not jealous of anybody's /anything/ efforts; I got plenty
of those myself.
2. I am not jealous of your programming ability; for even the
chuckles to be jealous of anything, it must first exist.
3. I am not jealous of /any/ man who flies another man's
airplane; I've done it. And I've designed 18 aircraft to final
envelope, two to final structure, one to parts list.
4. I am not jealous of any man who sailed on another man's
yacht. I've sailed my own after building the damned thing to be
variously rigged to teach rigging.
> although I am thinking
> he is just terminally bitter about his life failure, at this point.
The failure to "make" a Protestant pay his billZ? But I've never
/tried/ to "make" a Protestant pay his billZ. I just let him run
his ass into the ground and chalk up his personal recognition of yet
one more person he's a /dependent/ upon.
Read "parasite," since I don't suffer codependency, i.e., the need
for somebody to be Better Than.
The /Eurydice/ "bettered" Shakespeare in '88 and Petrarcca in '94,
e.g. and they "were" two of the interim "sort-of goals" when I'd set
out for a sonnet sequence or something in 1972. But the /Thrace/
went to 400 in five years /without them/. Ditto Basho'.
So even if I /do/ need something to be Better Than, it sure as
hell isn't the couple dozen who failed to pay their commercial and
professional billZ. And it sure as hell isn't you. I made a market
analysis in 1973, and have written my poultry /pro bono/ ever since.
I.e., "for shits and grins and to Prove That I Can."
Or were you talking about trophies and Awards?
I doesn't gots any trophies or Awards.
/My students/ gots trophies and Awards. Usually all the traffic
would bear in that place and time. No, you never saw me at "that
place and time," and neither did anybody else. If a kid needs a
/coach/, he has not learned.
...
>
> Have fun, sweetie, I do. :-)
No, you don't. It's a common-enough psychology.
Tarapia Tapioco
"What Rhyme is it?" <qqq...@joe83748374837.com> wrote:
>
>
> "Tarapia Tapioco" <comes...@ntani.firenze.linux.it> wrote in message news:d7f3204367bb5f25...@firenze.linux.it...
> > In article <40224916...@citilink.com>
> > Dale Houstman <dm...@citilink.com> wrote:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Tarapia Tapioco wrote:
> > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > Two little things or not.
> > > > Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> > > > Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
> > > >
> > > > Thourn Whaul
I don't think you differ, maybe your wiser at least not to show it.
>
> If you don't feed his delusion he calls it half-human.
>
Lonely people do this, what else is there to do?
> Dennis no doubt called Dale on his sawdust, and they must
> have had a good time. Links??
Dennis is a poetry everyday devotee, Dale I don't know, personally I feel more artisticly challanged
by Dale then you and Dennis together. And you, you haven't posted for a long time...
(Something tells me I'll be now mocked every time I post)
Thourn Whaul
ȼǻ
---
Dennis M. Hammes
>
>
> Dennis no doubt called Dale on his sawdust, and they must
> have had a good time. Links??
The only thing I /ever/ called Dale on is his assertion that he
could condemn another man's weapons without having any of his own
with which to condemn them.
He went all Higher Plane on me, so I'm not going to worry about
it; he can run out of oxygen all by himself. But any man who dares
to write poultry is a friend to that extent, and since I prefer to
keep my friends I'll warn 'em of something or other at least once.
Isn't a damned thing in the equations seZ they're gonna /like/ it.
Dennis M. Hammes
Heh. What you said. "Slip away in separate glimmers." That's a
damned good description of the Modernism that arose of the broken
English translations of Oriental poultry in the /fin de siecle/, and
an even better description of the Postmodernism that arose of the
encrapulation of the willing student in the Surrealists and Dada,
even Vomitkowski, though he's nothing more than a machine result of
the theory, not its proponent.
But poultry is written in /language/, not paint, and language has
a lot of /rules/. Break too many of them, and nobody can decode
what remains.
Priests love that, so they encourage it at all opportunities.
They've even got you to call them "lawyers" and "professors."
It won't be long, now.
Tarapia Tapioco
That is easy Jenny, the key is patience, a life long one.
In the mean time you can write poetry and try avoid to end up like Sylvia.
The worst thing one poet can do is merry another one.
Michael Cook
>
>
> What Rhyme is it? wrote:
> >>Surrealism lost in dualism barcoded on a hallmark at the checkout :)
> >>Not bad, but I know you can do so much better in form and meter.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > I hosted his crap at one time, and it was all pretty uniform.
> >
> >
>
> And yet he hosted it, and said he was "proud" to do so. At one time, he
> also suggested I become his on-line poetry instructor. Who's the fraud?
>
> various little projects, and - before that - wasting the hours trying to
> help him with his poetry, which was like trying to teach a raccoon to
> play Liszt on a plate of spaghetti through a steel mesh.
>
> This has little to do with the merit of anyone's poetic work - Tom can
> dribble what he wants to about that, and no one with any integrity will
> care. But it has a lot to do with all those old-time virtues such as
> honor and politeness: TommyMommy is a gutless and rather debased human
> being, incapable of poetry because he is incapable of self-examination.
>
> tossed this rancid little slinkveal around enough and - frankly - he's
> attempts to avoid presenting supporting evidence for his laughable
> little assertions by clumsily turning the tables, and saying I have to
> prove my poetry isn't a fraud. But I didn't say it wasn't! So I don't
> have to prove it one way or another.
>
> At any rate, the work speaks for itself as does TommyDum's behavior.
>
> dmh
>
yep, yep, yep!
tall true, it tis, it tis, it tis.
look out tommy two face,
look out.
Another Rhyme, Dude!
> yep, yep, yep!
> tall true, it tis, it tis, it tis.
> look out tommy two face,
> look out.
True: I am a "syphilitic lemur"
Jealous?
Another Rhyme, Dude!
> >
> > Dale is simply over sensitive, and is totally nuts about his
> > estimation of himself.
>
> I don't think you differ, maybe your wiser at least not to show it.
"you're" since you are contracting "you are"
..err, but I am simply parodying /them/.
And I don't call names. (any more)
> > If you don't feed his delusion he calls it half-human.
> >
>
> Lonely people do this, what else is there to do?
I like to watch Dale eat the shit he feeds others,
and will as long as he maintains his pompous attitude,
which will be forever. (In other words, I'm going to laugh
at him, the way others laugh at me.)
He is a pompous jerk that can't produce poem one that anyone
would enjoy (a few poets only), and yet rants on people that produce
poetry that people obviously enjoy. Dockery for one (which I
personally don't enjoy, but I can hardly miss that Dockery has
more of a following that Houstman has, or ever will.)
>
> > Dennis no doubt called Dale on his sawdust, and they must
> > have had a good time. Links??
>
> Dennis is a poetry everyday devotee,
Yes. Dennis in a brilliant act of intelligence, choose poetry as a career
over 30 years ago, and still can't sell enough to feed a cat.
In spite of this failed state, he never ceased to harrange me,
and I was, and probably still am his biggest supporter.
(pssst. hardly any of the regulars really like him much)
There is tons of /Dennis/ at his website, or the Usenet, and his
old stuff is much better than his current rantings.
He is unloading from a failed career, and attempting to maintain
dignity, but what dignity is there for a man that choose poetry
for a career, and then totally failed??
> Dale I don't know, personally I feel more artisticly challanged
> by Dale then you and Dennis together.
I've known them both for years.
They are both failed writers of various sorts.
Dale does editing, proofreading when he can, Dennis is
retired from various odd jobs.
> And you, you haven't posted for a long time...
I do when I want to.
Haven't seen you post much either... So?
> (Something tells me I'll be now mocked every time I post)
Why?
..irrespective your opinion of me, you were totally civil.
If you notice, I don't /mock/ people until they mock me
for quite a while.
Dale Houstman
seremba wrote:
> Hi Dale (resending this, I had my computer clock set off by a month)
>
> The first little thing seems to be more defined than the second,
> which is interesting really considering things seem so much clearer in
> daylight.
That's partly to purpose, although I think it needs more work.
>It could be the two 'or not' (s) which gives it a feeling of the
> unexplained.
But a bit overt I think: they seem to be there more as "bookmarks" for
revision than as permanent ingredients. We'll see.
>I like the letter image, ( much better than an envelope )'sans
> serif peak' is quite lovely.
My favorite part also.
>Did you mean 'literally' or is some literary
> message evading me?
I meant it in a purely marvelous sense, if that helps.
>The second little thing opens with such a stark
> contrast, which is good although the ambiguity is questionable. Which
> makes me ask maybe 'Two Little Things' or not.
I'm giddy over nots.
dmh
Dale Houstman
Three to Six and a half. And a pizzle shaped like a fly-swatter.
>
>
>
>>>>I'm waiting.
>>>
>>>
>>>Let me know if that's not enough of a testament. I make almost as good
>>>a witness as I do a minion.
>>>
>>
>>Just don't look straight at me, unless you want to be a blind poet.
>>
>>dmh
>
>
>
> backing from the room with my eyes averted from your frumious
> magnificence.
>
> Joy
>
Watch out for the WC!
dmh
Dale Houstman
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
> Dale Houstman wrote:
>
>>Will Dockery wrote:
>>
>>
>>>
>>>It seems all his writing is shitty, from his posts in these threads, to...
>>>unfortunately... his "poetry".
>>>Will
>>>
>>>
>>
>>The donkey thinks he's Pegasus.
>>
>>dmh
>
>
> Why not? He thinks angels have wings, too...
If they existed, and they had wings, they'd fly away upon first sight of
a Donkery.
dmh
Dale Houstman
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
> Dale Houstman wrote:
>
>
>>
>>This has little to do with the merit of anyone's poetic work - Tom can
>>dribble what he wants to about that, and no one with any integrity will
>>care. But it has a lot to do with all those old-time virtues such as
>>honor and politeness: TommyMommy is a gutless and rather debased human
>>being, incapable of poetry because he is incapable of self-examination.
>
>
> Tsk. Bishop Thomas is incapable of poultry because he's incapable
> of /language/.
Okay, that'll do.
dmh
Dale Houstman
Tom won't understand tihs either in his little broken-down dualist mind:
that two real people can argue over one subject, and bleed that over
into another subject, and still respect one another more than either of
them will even put up with the slinking landcarp that is a Tom.
dmh
Another Rhyme, Dude!
"Dale Houstman" <dm...@citilink.com> wrote in message news:4023A70F...@citilink.com...
I'm incrapable of "lungage" ????? heh..
But I have no small number of pompous ass lickers.
All I am saying about you and ennis is the truth,
but clearly /that/ wouldn't work for you,
so you invent idiotic statements like the above.
All adds to the humor, don'tcha know...
Another Rhyme, Dude!
> Tom won't understand tihs either in his little broken-down dualist mind:
> that two real people can argue over one subject, and bleed that over
> into another subject, and still respect one another more than either of
> them will even put up with the slinking landcarp that is a Tom.
Heh.. Like I care?
I call you for the failure that you are,
so you have a meltdown
like a tyro.
Typical.
If you had any control, you would ignore me, but you can't,
since I'm /spot on/.
Jenny
"Dennis M. Hammes" <scraw...@arvig.net> wrote in message
news:40234CE8...@arvig.net...
Then is Dale's poetry(for instance) part of a Postmodern school
of deliberate Surrealism? Is it not meant to have "meaning" but
to evoke suggestive images out of connotative phrases? Am I
looking at such poetry in the wrong way? Or are you saying that
this type of poetry breaks "too many" rules of language to decode
at all ? Which you think is not good poetry? Jenny
Jenny
this kind of poetry, or patiently learning to understand its qualities
without
the need to decode? That is, accept ing it for what it is, as in an
abstract painting?
Thanks for the warning about Sylvia! Let's hope her fate doesn't always
come with
the territory.
Jenny
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
Jenny
"What Rhyme is it?" <qqq...@joe83748374837.com> wrote in message
news:vEAUb.20639$iK4....@newssvr27.news.prodigy.com...
>
> > This contains so many interesting phrases that
> > I've read it over and over trying to understand
> > its meaning. Is it meant to have a meaning?
>
> At least that is what Dale told me he did.
>
>
> > I feel frustrated and ignorant of poetry, as I know
> > that you are a fine craftsman---but the phrases
> > slip away in separate glimmers in that boat's
> > reflection, and I'm left with nothing I can
> > hold.
>
>
> Your observation is much more correct than any
> idiot-prose Dale comes back with.
>
> > I think you would have more readers
> > if you were not so enigmatic. Yet I find similar
> > obscurity in much of today's published poetry. I
> > wish someone would give me the key! (If there is one.)
> > I don't ask for meaning in music or painting. Yet
> > poetry is an art of language, which by definition
> > seems as though it ought to communicate,even if
> > with difficulty. Can you or someone answer this?
>
>
> Dale takes it to the point of the ridiculous, where
> there really isn't any point conveyed.
>
> Dale hopes he is conveying feelings/moods/blah
> get his latest pomegranate theory, but he is so in love
> with his words that he lost objectivity long ago.
>
> Everyone is like you, and just shakes their heads,
> and moves on...
>
>
> >
> > Jenny
> >
> >
>
Thanks. I guess everyone makes notes of some sort. I
have a little notebook, plus any random slips of paper that I
find nearby. It's what one does with these notes that I'm wondering
about. And the larger question of whether poetry today is
considered good only if it's very ambiguous. Or not?
Jenny
Another Rhyme, Dude!
> Thanks. I guess everyone makes notes of some sort. I
> have a little notebook, plus any random slips of paper that I
> find nearby. It's what one does with these notes that I'm wondering
> about. And the larger question of whether poetry today is
> considered good only if it's very ambiguous. Or not?
Poetry is good if you like it, and isn't good if you don't.
There are other questions, like:
- will the poetry be liked by people of many varied tastes?
(for example Frost has a wide ranging appeal, whereas
Dylan Thomas has a more eclectic following)
- will the poetry /last/ a hundred years, 500?
- there are objective criteria that can be charted also,
but more for amusement.
..a favorite of mine is..
- will the poetry /make a woman swoon/ which is
considerably easier than the above,
depending on the woman.
Another Rhyme, Dude!
> Then is Dale's poetry(for instance) part of a Postmodern school
> of deliberate Surrealism? Is it not meant to have "meaning" but
> to evoke suggestive images out of connotative phrases? Am I
> looking at such poetry in the wrong way? Or are you saying that
> this type of poetry breaks "too many" rules of language to decode
> at all ? Which you think is not good poetry? Jenny
I didn't even read what he wrote, and I would wager
a good sum that Hammes would think /that/ about Dale's poetry,
and that is why Dale hates Hammes.
(of course he will quickly tell you that he hates me more,
since I'm half-human.)
Aren't I refreshingly apish? ..don't mind the hair.
Dale Houstman
Jenny wrote:
>
>
>
> Then is Dale's poetry(for instance) part of a Postmodern school
> of deliberate Surrealism?
What is "deliberate Surrealism"? And I am not post-modern.
>Is it not meant to have "meaning" but
> to evoke suggestive images out of connotative phrases?
There is nothing essentially post-modern about that. Suggestion IS
meaning, and Mallerme isn't post-modern, and neither are the suggestive
abstractions of ancient sound poetry.
>Am I looking at such poetry in the wrong way?
Maybe you're looking at the universe the wrong way?
>Or are you saying that
> this type of poetry breaks "too many" rules of language to decode
> at all ? Which you think is not good poetry?
Dennis and I do have many discrete ideas about what does and does not
constitute poetry. Luclily for both of us, the universe is not a
one-horse town.
dmh
Tarapia Tapioco
> > ---
> Hi, Thourn. By "patience," do you mean patiently trying to decode
> this kind of poetry, or patiently learning to understand its qualities
> without
> the need to decode? That is, accept ing it for what it is, as in an
> abstract painting?
Both, plus you try to relate the images, search for points and week spots left by the artist to make it understandable.
If it doesn't work it helps to ask.
>
> Thanks for the warning about Sylvia! Let's hope her fate doesn't always
> come with
> the territory.
Yes it's a stereotype, what you don't see in the movies is a foreplay where the lovers
recite poetry to each other while undressing, etc ;)
Thourn Whaul
遣囿
---
Another Rhyme, Dude!
> Dennis and I do have many discrete ideas about what does and does not
> constitute poetry. Luclily for both of us, the universe is not a
> one-horse town.
Nor even two, or three etc..
You are both Usenet losers who think you are hot shit.
If you were hot shit you wouldn't be here.
J Rinier
...Said Hot, Reeking Shit, Himself, Comma, Thusly Thereby Forthwith
Proving For Once And For All That He Is So Illiterate That He Can't
Even Read His Own Turgid, Shit-Swollen Mind.
Etc.
J Rinier
Will Dockery
Say a third lukewarm shit.
Will
Will Dockery
I dreamed --- an unholy afternoon of dreams.
I chased for her with a silent scream ---.
Dreamed of a very tiny bald rat,
and of her with a man in a big black hat.
Dreamed I awoke her, lifted her veil, tears in my eyes,
and she smiled her soft inscrutable smile.
She walked through the door,
carrying our black haired infant child,
who evolved into another then became her herself.
It dissolved into a meaningless dream blur.
I dreamed of a woman who was now my love,
someone I've never met but who also was her!
She was blonde, cunning and careful to keep love.
I dreamed of old Broadway and the bars and the street,
somehow risen above the usual to a new level.
Sometime in the future somehow sideways,
the wall of Jim's bar opened into the human.
Somewhere maybe sideways along,
I dreamed, though not there to keep her,
on an unholy afternoon of dreams.
I believe it would crumble to one and one,
as if we saw that rainbow yesterday.
We saw it apart, once again, though knowing.
We did not know each other then,
as we do not now although created in many dream fragments.
New realities, new reunions, in sideways realities,
where she knows we must work fast not to lose,
like they said we would.
I dreamed, an unholy afternoon of dreams.
-Will Dockery (c)2002
Elephant Girl On Rankin.
Jesus' consort
statuesque beauty blindfolded
labia lipped skyscraper built on the spot
built where Lady Katherine lived
the whorehouse grocery
at the edge of linwood Cemetary.
Old money still spins well
spends well.
Northside skyline of many colored glass
Fort Darkness walled in
the giant Temple of Mars visible
from behind the walls, silvery, ancient.
The glittering war machines and masks
not so visible.
Elephant Girl and silver skinned alien
sit with the projector.
Other worlds surround them.
Scattered money all over them.
A pyramid built from colored bells.
Clocks and machinery---
I can see from on high.
A giant housefly feeds on Green Island.
They stand and face West
as Jesus surveys Lee County
from on high.
Jesus' little sidekick
looks so lonely
dressed in Papal robes, booklet of poems
and a big cross in his arms.
They're aware of the train wreck
near Goat rock
insturments spilled from the boxcar.
Liquid bubble cube
ancient animal bones
other things, colored ceramic
at Jesus' feet.
Jesus prepares to start up
and operate the Holy Machine.
They've turned their backs
on Shadowville
with its bells and jars,
cars, cupid and crowns,
chains, old clocks, an hour glass.
Elephant Girl, happy in her bathing suit
floating on a cloud.
-Will Dockery
Dennis M. Hammes
Etc.
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
I wondered why his SUV kept getting bigger.
Then it hit me.
http://scrawlmark.org
Dennis M. Hammes
Hath turn'd his balls to gun-stones; and his soul
Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance
That shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows
Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands;
Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down;
And some are yet ungotten and unborn
That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.
Dennis M. Hammes
It is and it isn't; Dale sometimes explains his world and sometimes
not, sometimes explains his pomes and sometimes not. And he
experiments a lot.
But he /has/, like most, inherited a "method" and a "body of
literature" from the bulk of the 20th Century, that all the Best
Authorities money can buy insist is PO-etry because that is what
they were hired to do.
I took my training from poets rather deader than those, mostly,
and it shows.
Dennis M. Hammes
Etc.
Dennis M. Hammes
Hmmmm?
Perhaps you no longer quite worship the economic theories of
Ronald McDonald, but as yet you still have nothing with which to
replace them.
Esp. when it comes to theories of PO-etry, of communication
generally, where you continue to fall into old habits of programming
McKeystrokes for McKiddies to consume in return for McReserveNotes.
If you want to trade in something besides the same old shit, you
gotta /find/ something to trade in besides the same old shit, and
history demonstrates that such research is /always/ done /pro bono/,
even by those paid to profess some other aspect of the same field.
If you spend 15 days/year eating, 121 days/year sleeping and 260
days/year working for somebody else's McReserveNotes, it doesn't
leave much for research, esp. when you work from January through May
to pay for somebody else's McHappyMeals.
Dennis M. Hammes
But he doesn't /want/ to read his turgid, shit-swollen mind.
(He heard somewhere that this makes him Normal.)
Unfortunately, he /also/ fails to understand that when the diaper
package seZ "Up To 20 Pounds," /they MEAN 20 pounds/; you change it
or else.
Dale Houstman
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
>
> It is and it isn't; Dale sometimes explains his world and sometimes
> not, sometimes explains his pomes and sometimes not. And he
> experiments a lot.
> But he /has/, like most, inherited a "method" and a "body of
> literature" from the bulk of the 20th Century, that all the Best
> Authorities money can buy insist is PO-etry because that is what
> they were hired to do.
> I took my training from poets rather deader than those, mostly,
> and it shows.
Yes, but my first interests and influences were "deader" also. Mainly,
Emily Dickinson and later lots of Japanese poets, and more modern but
still dead poets such as Rimbaud. I really find my deepest roots in
romanticism, and only altered my relation to the human imagination's
stature as the years have altered their's.
dmh
Will Dockery
news:20040207122246...@mb-m26.aol.com...
> fuckoff, dockery.
> http://members.aol.com/vlorbik/
No.
Will Dockery
"Karipidu" <kari...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20040207122937...@mb-m07.aol.com...
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> Marianna
I expect there's some truth in that... but duality comes into play also---
poetry was also said to have come from a leak in Odin's meadbag, as he flew
across the heavens and drops fell on random people... infusing them with
poetic powers...
Will
Rhymes of /darkness/ Oooo
> I really find my deepest roots
Use rootone.
J Rinier
Will Dockery
> >> ...Said Hot, Reeking Shit, Himself, Comma, Thusly Thereby Forthwith
> >> Proving For Once And For All That He Is So Illiterate That He Can't
> >> Even Read His Own Turgid, Shit-Swollen Mind.
> >>
> >> Etc.
> >>
> >> J Rinier
Oh, Rinier, such hot *snip*
Shadowville Ballet.
-Will Dockery (c)2002
Elephant Girl On Rankin.
-Will Dockery
Will Dockery
news:wPaVb.22415$qC7....@newssvr25.news.prodigy.com...
>
> > I really find my deepest roots
>
>
> Use rootone.
Rik Roots?
Will Dockery
Sent: Saturday, February 07, 2004 8:57 AM
Subject: Re: Two Little Things
I really like Elephant Girl. I see alot of things in listening to the words
as I read them.....Thanks for some memories, that are filling a void inside
me as of this moment in time. connie
"A retentive memory may be a good thing, but the ability to forget is the
true token of greatness."
Nice to hear from you, Connie, it's been a while. Hope all is well with you.
"All of these memories,
they're certainly mine.
She's gone, she's gone, she's gone,
on the train to Anaheim..."
-David Blue
Will Dockery
news:bdb44a4f.04020...@posting.google.com...
> From: tajeindia
> Sent: Saturday, February 07, 2004 8:57 AM
> Subject: Re: Two Little Things
>
> I really like Elephant Girl. I see alot of things in listening to the
words
> as I read them.....
I wonder if there's any chance that Mark Coile's sculpture that helped
inspire this poem on one acid drenched weekend afternoon survived his
passing, or at least photos. It was the science fiction machine with
flickering lights and all manner of buttons, knobs, drums and wires, in the
back room of Bizzare Earth, 1996.
Will
J Rinier
<irony...@knology.net> wrote:
>"J Rinier" <gotgkSP...@hotmail.com> wrote
>
>> >> ...Said Hot, Reeking Shit, Himself, Comma, Thusly Thereby Forthwith
>> >> Proving For Once And For All That He Is So Illiterate That He Can't
>> >> Even Read His Own Turgid, Shit-Swollen Mind.
>> >>
>> >> Etc.
>> >>
>> >> J Rinier
>
>Oh, Rinier, such hot *snip*
You shouldn't repress your homosexual urgers toward me, Wilbur.
You'll end up in a white room strapped to a piss-stinking bed
murmering gibberish through your spit.
You know, like TomTom.
HTH
HAND
J Rinier
<Unspeakable Shit Snecked>
<Trollish Crosspost Stilled>
## Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends,
and society are the natural enemies of a writer.
He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage
if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.
Lawrence Clark Powell ##
Rik Roots
> "Rhymes of /darkness/ Oooo" <tyu...@45458984rt.com> wrote in message
> news:wPaVb.22415$qC7....@newssvr25.news.prodigy.com...
>>
>> > I really find my deepest roots
>>
>>
>> Use rootone.
>
> Rik Roots?
>
Kudos namecheck two!
Have you worked out what my name means in Strine yet?
<snip>
Rik, knee deep.
--
Download Rik's poetry chapbooks for free from
http://www.kalieda.org/poems/xbuy.html
Clot: the searchable online poetry magazine listing service
http://www.kalieda.org/clot/clot.php
Rhymes of /darkness/ Oooo
"Rik Roots" <r...@kallider.org> wrote in message news:gHrVb.12400$P32....@news-binary.blueyonder.co.uk...
> Will Dockery wrote:
>
> > "Rhymes of /darkness/ Oooo" <tyu...@45458984rt.com> wrote in message
> > news:wPaVb.22415$qC7....@newssvr25.news.prodigy.com...
> >>
> >> > I really find my deepest roots
> >>
> >>
> >> Use rootone.
> >
> > Rik Roots?
Rootone is a product used on the exposed
tips of plant cuttings.
Interestingly it doesn't promote growth, or provide
nutrient, but rather simply prevents fungi from taking
over the new growth.
Will Dockery
> >> > I really find my deepest roots
> >>
> >>
> >> Use rootone.
> >
> > Rik Roots?
> >
> Kudos namecheck two!
>
> Have you worked out what my name means in Strine yet?
> <snip>
> Rik, knee deep.
No, but it always makes me think of the Rastaman when I see it. I wonder
whatever happened to him...
Op Bop.
Life force rattles I feel it in my flesh,
one love like the rasta told me.
Flying mystery I saw as a child,
wet and rapid, floating grey and smiling,
electric and aware,
you are good humor sweet angel of death.
To that point where the silver glistens,
under soft ground where our people play.
Blue territory no longer mine,
Op bop, see it with your mind, hear it with your soul.
What now for us, my twisted dark love?
Monket love, baby love, rolling in the red bugs love,
puppy love, good sweet love, paid for love, back door love,
old love, or make believe love?
Just show me the sign, crack open my mind,
op bop, visual mental abstract and imperfect.
-Will Dockery. 1998
Will Dockery
> Thanks Will. I have been a little down, seems doctors will make you
wish they had killed you sometimes! I have lost the 10 pounds they
made me gain, and now my hair wants to break off in the oddest
places...I was hoping I would not have to cut it again, since it took
all this year past to grow it back to the middle of my back! I am use
to having my hair long, especially this time of year(it keeps me
warm,LOL). Ahh, the good ole' feeling a little sorry for myself hour
of the evening is over, and I am already tired just from typing this
small note. I think you probably understand....Send me some good
vibes, I could certinly use them now, I have 5 more treatments, to
assure that I am going to be healthy, untill at least the next time
the bloodwork comes back looking grim...Hope all is well for you as
well, give everyone my best. connie
>
All the best wishes, vibes, prayers, healing energy and love to you I have
on this glorious morning, Connie. As you know, keep positive through the
frustrating ups and downs that come--- everything seems to take a long time.
I'm getting ready to down a few pots of coffee before work, write a few
notes, and bury myself in the hustle and bustle of work. Stay strong,
m'lady.
If you hear from Kris in the next day or so, pass word to him that the
monthly poetry reading is coming up, Tuesday night, at Fountain City
Coffeehouse, downtown on Broadway--- I'd love to see him, and check out his
current poetry. Clay is off for some new adventures, turns out he's headed
to New York to continue school, at Columbia--- perhaps I can convince him to
make it to the reading, as well.
Fountain City Coffee:
http://www.fountaincitycoffee.com
> "A retentive memory may be a good thing, but the ability to forget
is the true token of greatness."
> No, but it always makes me think of the Rastaman when I see it. I wonder
Will Dockery
news:<20040207112429...@mb-m29.aol.com>...
> Mr. Will Dockery,
> I like 'em, I really like em! Except for the line about "from on high"
it's
> very fresh, very vortex language I enjoyed the tme in your world.
>
> Loving you
> Becca
Thank you, Becca--- I might change the "from on high" line to
something else during the rewrite...
Will
Fadeaway Encounter.
Fire, period.
Emily with Jesus in the garden,
talking about the werewolf of Peabody, and
Time, red haired angel, she's the
Dragon of Sandinista.
Machine works, life.
Sunset, outside. Pastel.
Lightbulb, inside. No electricity.
Burning desire, sets the stage for
Gunshots on Chesterfield avenue.
Speedball, murder winds.
Desert moon drops.
LaGrange premelt.
Emily at the stations of the cross.
Pastel sunset, then wine in the dark.
Nightmare notes,
bloody bathroom tiles.
Eos, another May baby, she carries the
Ragnarok brick.
Flying mystery,
Jesus on a joyride,
in frosty frizzy clouds.
There goes that pretty blind girl again.
Thinking about Jesus and Emily,
and of course the pretty blind girl.
-Will Dockery 1996
Green Ringlets.
The ocean turns with each new day
he spilled the beer and domestic turmoil abounds.
I dropped the reciever back
and lit a cigarette--- it tasted murky.
Her eyes are green with deep golden ringlets
'round her pupils.
A dead spot--- there was nothing there at all.
Saw his lady drinking beer with another man all alone
said I'd like to take her to the shed
make pictures of her eyeballs.
She is like smoke--- she smells musky.
Yhere is a crackling
it's too numerous, conjunctual---
the burden of the poachers
they line around you for favors.
They come to you under smoky skies
the smoky underlit city skies.
Coming around and hitting my fist on wood
it gets quite late when it's early then.
The cold wind blows on the orderly ghetto
the city is moonlit and quiet
silent black cars pass sometimes.
Watching the searchlight in the smoked up sky
as it crosses the perimeter
and doubles back upon itself.
-Will Dockery 1981 (c)2003
Will Dockery
I once loved a girl,
Owl Rusthair was her name.
In the time the owls howled,
peace shattered forever.
Wandered the astral plane,
through stick country,
I came upon her there.
She wore a bright blue jacket
with brass buttons.
She spoke by the Riverwalk stone cave,
late moon bright white.
Through sweet fog we made way in the night,
I wore red and blue checkers.
The air was warm.
My award pinned on my jacket,
going a-hunting.
Bats in the attic at Olsen Hall,
along with some other things.
We heard the bats singing through the door,
special forces.
We heard they'd shot Jack The Lad
the night before.
I was at the pay phone as she walked up.
Behind us a parade of cars were leaving the park.
She walked up to me,
I could tell she had an agenda.
I took her hand
and we went on a walkabout.
So long ago
I'd almost forgotten her name.
Too many friends
too many with similar names.
Red and blue became one
jackets blended.
I came inside her black sea.
Her void,
six inches and 21 years,
beyond her smile,
her eyes beyond the fleshknot.
-Will Dockery (c)2004
After The Reading.
Of the fortold flood this year's fall,
plush lush I still manage to blush,
this would be accurate if only it made some sense.
Plush lush the fog is so dense,
overloaded by the cruel humor of coincidence.
Seaweed fox,
tick tock tick tock
Art, heart, apart, art,
the contents of your candy box.
It's not like in some faded film,
the endless kiss that is not mine,
as I see bliss it is not like this.
Pass through her door this,
why do I adore this,
why do you abhor this?
This that is falling apart, my heart,
chased a little bit by this lack of art,
crumbles down like the blue sky,
I stand and watch but don't know why.
It's a reply --- poetical,
coming down dark ironic satirical.
Coming down like pink and blue,
she plays pool and so do you.
Try to fuzz and create the words,
rolling rhyme and melody to be heard,
in this wild heart, meet the Shadowman,
strike and stalk like a true fan.
To make a sign moon someone else tries,
the salty stain of a tear that dries.
Have no use for these word lies,
this mythology I despise.
-Will Dockery 1998
david d.
Will Dockery
>
> <snip>
>
> Thank you for sharing your poetry.
>
> - Berkano
Thanks, for reading it, Berkano!
Will
"david d." <vonde...@earthlink.net> wrote in message
news:5d078d78.0402...@posting.google.com...
Will Dockery
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> >> Life force rattles I feel it in my flesh,
> >> one love like the rasta told me.
> >> Flying mystery I saw as a child,
> >> wet and rapid, floating grey and smiling,
> >> electric and aware,
> >> you are good humor sweet angel of death.
> >> To that point where the silver glistens,
> >> under soft ground where our people play.
> >> Blue territory no longer mine,
> >> Op bop, see it with your mind, hear it with your soul.
> >> What now for us, my twisted dark love?
> >> Monket love, baby love, rolling in the red bugs love,
> >> puppy love, good sweet love, paid for love, back door love,
> >> old love, or make believe love?
> >> Just show me the sign, crack open my mind,
> >> op bop, visual mental abstract and imperfect.
>
> >> -Will Dockery. 1998
>
> Goodbye prince, I leave you
> aman, aman, aman,
>
> Do you see that mountain
> Do you see that mountain
> aman, aman, aman,
>
> Do you see that snow-mountain
> Do you see that snow-mountain
> aman, aman, aman,
>
> There you put my tomb
> There you put my tomb
> There you put my grave
> There you put my grave
Diver Days.
Crosslegged, she sits.
Red wine, friends.
Mellowness & memories.
*** *** ***
She seems
to have a crisis of faith,
but she's also sort of a
prima donna it seems.
A bit absurd with it.
Seems to be
doing better on this one,
this faster rocking gospel plow;
needing to use less octaves.
It's got the crowd
up and clapping,
Brother Dave almost jumps.
*** *** ***
Is it important,
or really?
Just go right through it.
-Will Dockery.
Will Dockery
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> >Diver Days.
> >Crosslegged, she sits.
> >Red wine, friends.
> >Mellowness & memories.
> >*** *** ***
> >She seems
> >to have a crisis of faith,
> >but she's also sort of a
> >prima donna it seems.
> >A bit absurd with it.
> >Seems to be
> >doing better on this one,
> >this faster rocking gospel plow;
> >needing to use less octaves.
> >It's got the crowd
> >up and clapping,
> >Brother Dave almost jumps.
> >*** *** ***
> >Is it important,
> >or really?
> >Just go right through it.
>
> goddess of the moon.
> Homeric Hymn to Selene
>
> "Muses, sweet-speaking daughters of Zeus Kronides
> and mistresses of song, sing next of long-winged Moon!
> From her immortal head a heaven-sent glow
> envelops the earth and great beauty arises
> under its radiance. From her golden crown the dim air
> is made to glitter as her rays turn night to noon,
> whenever bright Selene, having bathed her beautiful skin
> in the Ocean, put on her shining rainment
> and harnessed her proud-necked and glittering steeds,
> swiftly drives them on as their manes play
> with the evening, dividing the months. Her great orbit is full
> and as she waxes a most brilliant light appears
> in the sky. Thus to mortals she is a sign and a token."
>
> Selene was called Luna in Roman mythology.
Marianna
Salt Ripple.
One man, one ashtray,
the old man with beads paints alone.
The storm passes over,
Moon Child is always with him.
Mermaid's handbag, I find my cure,
near the salt water medicine.
Sanpipers dance, I watch the moves,
way off Broadway.
Far away now,
from the madness of erotic politics,
I think I should never return.
remain here, become pure again
among the thunderstorms and greensnakes.
The old man with beads
sings baritone in the shower.
The storms have passed over,
leaving sadness, uncertainty and hope.
Ancient energy here...
the moon shows up in late afternoon.
She's imitating a cloud.
Foamy egg moon we hatched from,
our ancient dust and rock birth sack.
-Will Dockery (c)2003
Will Dockery
news:q96i20h2cblk4037k...@4ax.com...
> On 09 Feb 2004 21:50:21 GMT, kari...@aol.com (Karipidu) wrote:
>
> >>From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> >>> Life force rattles I feel it in my flesh,
> >>> one love like the rasta told me.
> >>> Flying mystery I saw as a child,
> >>> wet and rapid, floating grey and smiling,
> >>> electric and aware,
> >>> you are good humor sweet angel of death.
> >>> To that point where the silver glistens,
> >>> under soft ground where our people play.
> >>> Blue territory no longer mine,
> >>> Op bop, see it with your mind, hear it with your soul.
> >>> What now for us, my twisted dark love?
> >>> Monket love, baby love, rolling in the red bugs love,
> >>> puppy love, good sweet love, paid for love, back door love,
> >>> old love, or make believe love?
> >>> Just show me the sign, crack open my mind,
> >>> op bop, visual mental abstract and imperfect.
> >
> >>> -Will Dockery. 1998
> >
> >Goodbye prince, I leave you
> >aman, aman, aman,
> >
> >Do you see that mountain
> >Do you see that mountain
> >aman, aman, aman,
> >
> >Do you see that snow-mountain
> >Do you see that snow-mountain
> >aman, aman, aman,
> >
> >There you put my tomb
> >There you put my tomb
> >There you put my grave
>
> Seahorse
>
> The seahorse rears to oblivion,
> When God created The Worlds,
> They were, before then, without form,
> In a void, except in His own great eye,
> Which had already seen Every Thing that was, is, and will.
>
> The first thing He created, I believe,
> Though the Bible does not tell us so,
> Is children's crying,
> As this is still mirrored when children are born,
> Though no doubt all animals weep for birth in their own particular
> way,
> But they must have someone human to notice it so it can be noted.
>
> The second thing He created was two things simultaneous to frighten
> children:
> An old rocking horse that moves of its own accord, and a discoloured
> dolly which seems to move occasionally.
>
> The third things He did was to throw Lucifer out of Heaven,
> So that He would be waiting on Earth,
> To destroy everything that people tried to do,
> And to destroy what little happiness they scurried together,
> And He became Satan,
> And waits here still for all of us,
> That is three things, too:
> ...Lucifer to Satan
> ...Destroying to do
> ...And to enjoy;
>
> The fourth things He did was to laugh,
> Once, twice, thrice, and fourth;
>
> The fifth things was to create one Star, one Animal, one Fish, one
> Bird, one Human;
> These five bred together to create the entire moving, flying, spinning
> world, and what is in it.
>
> The Stars, He sent to fly and lie in space;
> The Animal, He made to be our base nature and our state of nature, and
> our innocence, and our momentomorium on Earth.
>
> The Fish went to swim and drink the waters of the sea world;
> The Bird flies, dies, and falls;
> The Human lies, dies, destroys, creates, and seeks The Stars that He
> sent up in space;
> The Stars try and try and try to fly away from Earth,
> But God has caught them in a large sling that holds them from falling
> too near,
> Or flying too far...
>
> The Devil creates black holes,
> And sucks them out of the visible universe,
> To create decorations,
> Baubles and Globes full of light and darkness,
> In the ceiling sky of Hell.
> Upside down if you could see it standing up.
>
> Then God decides that it is time to blow the final trumpet,
> And call all chickens home to roost in every way and meaning.
> God then blows final trumpet and withdraws the sling from the sky.
> The sling is made of wire and wool and wep and weft,
> And is webbed together;
> And the roost begins.
> The Stars are withdrawn from the heavenly hold of,
> And attempt to rush away from the stinking world,
> And Satan simultaneously tries to snatch all of them up to bauble His
> Kingdom,
> Itself now doomed to His own Knowledge,
> The Stars are taken half by Satan,
> Dragged through an ever-increasing black rent in the night sky;
> The other half run toward the Plaides and Alderbran;
> Oh stars of the evening,
> How swift you rush and roar away;
> Even Satan, in His great power and fury and great greed cannot stop
> them,
> So eager are they to dance in different ways,
> And God knows all, sees all, and is prepared for all,
> He creates a huge net made of spit,
> And throws it further than that farthest star.
>
> The Stars are caught on spit,
> Like birds to the line covered branch.
>
> Damned.
>
> God lectures them with a whip;
> The spit shivers as the whip quivers over The Stars;
> The Voice slathers and labours with more of the same spit that has
> caught them,
> Forever, and ever, and ever...
>
> The Stars only course, is to obey He who made them,
> The Stars are given great scars with a whip for attempting to flee;
> The scars are blood courses for the liquid proof of God's anger which
> pours from them;
> The Bauble Stars are brought back by a stream of spit which cuts
> through the web between the worlds;
> They too are slashed and thrashed.
> The Stars are ordered by God to return to the sling of orbit to watch
> his mercy reign,
> Drown like rain on the Earth.
> And all those that are unfortunate enough to have been born in and of
> it,
> The Stars do not wish to go.
> They march sadly to their home.
>
> ---
> http://seven.postmodern.com
> seven at post modern dot com
This is one of the better poems I've read in a while, Seven--- there's
plenty of thought and image to grapple with for a while...
Will
--
Will Dockery music:
http://www.lulu.com/dockery
Will Dockery
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> >Salt Ripple.
> >One man, one ashtray,
> >the old man with beads paints alone.
> >The storm passes over,
> >Moon Child is always with him.
> >Mermaid's handbag, I find my cure,
> >near the salt water medicine.
> >Sanpipers dance, I watch the moves,
> >way off Broadway.
> >Far away now,
> >from the madness of erotic politics,
> >I think I should never return.
> >remain here, become pure again
> >among the thunderstorms and greensnakes.
> >The old man with beads
> >sings baritone in the shower.
> >The storms have passed over,
> >leaving sadness, uncertainty and hope.
> >Ancient energy here...
> >the moon shows up in late afternoon.
> >She's imitating a cloud.
> >Foamy egg moon we hatched from,
> >our ancient dust and rock birth sack.
>
> it seems that I can say nothing at all
> but my tongue is broken in silence,
> and that instant a light fire
> rushes beneath my skin,
> I can no longer see anything in my eyes
> and my ears are thundering,
> and cold sweat pours down me,
> and shuddering grasps me all over,
> and I am greener than grass,
> and I seem to myself to be
> little short of death
> But all is endurable, since even a poor man ...
>
Marianna
Soft Shadows
Soft shadows of two men,
move and evolve.
Commercialism is the word,
a fact of life.
Sometimes very pleasant.
I've been here before.
i will be here again.
Roger that.
Soft sound from the piano below,
shifts and flows.
from this dizzy height,
it's hard to see anything.
In the effort to get everything.
-Will Dockery
seven
<irony...@knology.net> wrote:
>Will Dockery music:
>http://www.lulu.com/dockery
Will do you get any business from this? Contact me off-list if you
wouldn't mind, and tell me about it.
Will Dockery
> >Will Dockery music:
> Will do you get any business from this? Contact me off-list if you
> wouldn't mind, and tell me about it.
---
> http://seven.postmodern.com
> seven at post modern dot com
Yes, Lulu.com seem to be some honest people. So far, they're apparently
keeping good track of what's coming in. I'll drop you a line about it later
tonight, when I return...
Will
Off The Cuff Part Two
Enforced distance,
I've known her for a while.
But I could never love her,
I'll never know her smile.
Because she can't see me
and I can not see her.
She just lives around the way,
but the distance could not be further.
And I can not explain that,
can not be really written in a book.
She is like an ancient soul mate,
she has such a distant look.
If I had the courage,
I'd ask her why she don't seem to like me.
But like I'm sometimes known to do
I'll just wait and see.
Off the cuff,
I cry secret tears for you.
Off the cuff,
couldn't take a rejection from you.
-Will Dockery
Will Dockery
Weasel cringes,
Weasel winces,
watch Weasel out
straddling fences.
Diving under tables,
avoiding his senses.
(That's what he's doin'!)
-Will Dockery
When.
When the mill shut down,
we hit the pavement with a thud,
then we all got up and kept walking.
Some to the work house,
some to the poor house,
some to the whorehouse,
and the grave.
-Will Dockery
Will Dockery
> the moon stands out among all the stars,
> and her light grasps both the salt sea
> and the flowering meadows
> and fair dew flows forth,
> and soft roses and chervil
> and fragrant melilot bloom...
Marianna
Moon Studies.
Toys toys toys,
among these flowers.
Little Angel,
shaven and beautiful,
falls, smacks her behind on the cement
a couple of times.
She's mystical, punk,
and her magic transforms this street
to Bourbon Street.
Three lesbian pirates walk by,
Spaniard girls,
far east traders.
I think of Edith the bag lady,
she's bored with her bags,
her bag is to split me open,
tear me apart with pleasure,
but I am far far away.
Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
living with the Lion and his silver lady.
There's art,
Joseph on his bicycle,
grampa singing his heart out.
But my grampa's in heaven with a ballpeen hammer,
breaking all the mirrors.
Skulls, crossbones,
the Raven does cross stitch, Two Flagler blondes pass,
I look up from my writing just in time.
I see them looking back smiling,
my heart skips a beat.
There is art, the wind is artistic,
the colors so very perfect.
Silver moon like no other,
people shifting and speaking.
Artist ladies,
a street that comes inward.
Cacaphony of music, shout, sounds,
jazz blowing in the wind over my head.
Fast Chicago blues from the tavern,
cars and yells and click clack,
walking sounds and the whir of wind.
Jarrod and Dawn have closed the coffee shop,
so I sit ---.
Then a car on Hypoltia rushes by with 70's soul blast,
fast and then it's gone.
I saw death on Saint George Street,
in the doorway of the tavern,
on All Hallows Eve.
Electric fire blood,
remembering Megan's crystals,
spoken of in her poetry.
Moonchild native of the dreamtown.
Going on with a spiral of thought,
remembering golden Elaine.
Flash of sparks of memory,
unfolded to other causes and times.
Problematic possibilities,
paranoic perspective,
peopled by children in an ancient city.
She's bored with her bags.
Her bag is to split me open,
tear me apart with pleasure,
but I am far far away.
-Will Dockery (c)2000
seven
<irony...@knology.net> wrote:
>"seven" <vo...@void.net> wrote
>
>> >Will Dockery music:
>
>http://www.lulu.com/dockery
>
>> Will do you get any business from this? Contact me off-list if you
>> wouldn't mind, and tell me about it.
>Yes, Lulu.com seem to be some honest people. So far, they're apparently
>keeping good track of what's coming in. I'll drop you a line about it later
>tonight, when I return...
>Will
Thanks. I've fininshed transcribing my '03 works, and am still
editing, but have some peices and am considering various methods of
publishing. Even if I went with a vanity press, just to have some on
hand, that would be an accomplishment I believe....
Enjoyed this, by the way, seems a little familiar (not the words mind
you, but I know the sentiment)
>
>Off The Cuff Part Two
>
>Enforced distance,
>I've known her for a while.
>But I could never love her,
>I'll never know her smile.
>
>Because she can't see me
>and I can not see her.
>She just lives around the way,
>but the distance could not be further.
>
>And I can not explain that,
>can not be really written in a book.
>She is like an ancient soul mate,
>she has such a distant look.
>
>If I had the courage,
>I'd ask her why she don't seem to like me.
>But like I'm sometimes known to do
>I'll just wait and see.
>
>Off the cuff,
>I cry secret tears for you.
>Off the cuff,
>couldn't take a rejection from you.
>
>-Will Dockery
>
---
Will Dockery
> >> >Will Dockery music:
> >
> >http://www.lulu.com/dockery
> >
> >> Will do you get any business from this? Contact me off-list if you
> >> wouldn't mind, and tell me about it.
>
> >Yes, Lulu.com seem to be some honest people. So far, they're apparently
> >keeping good track of what's coming in. I'll drop you a line about it
later
> >tonight, when I return...
> >Will
>
> Thanks. I've fininshed transcribing my '03 works, and am still
> editing, but have some peices and am considering various methods of
> publishing. Even if I went with a vanity press, just to have some on
> hand, that would be an accomplishment I believe....
>
> Enjoyed this, by the way, seems a little familiar (not the words mind
> you, but I know the sentiment)
Lillian was pretty pleased with the way Lulu.com put her novel together, a
while back:
http://www.lulu.com/content/25707
Based on comic book characters originated by Will Dockery, this pulp fiction
noir novel explores the seamy supernatural side of the fictional Shadowville
town in West Georgia, USA. Ancient Shamanism, heroes with super-human
abilities, vampires, poison potions, strangely passionate criminals, and
ordinary policemen in extraordinary circumstances, and even more surprises,
are all blended together in this darkly original novel. There is even time
for romance, both sacred and profane, in these pages. Co-authored by the
immensely creative Blackwolf, this novel is a must-read for pulp lovers. And
we ain't talkin' about orange juice, Shweet-art! (174 pages)
Will Dockery
> Will, take a look at that:
>
> GREEK MP3 LINKS - The Best Links - greek mp3 links - Yasou Mp3 THE BEST
GREEK
> MP3 LINKS. Message Board, WWW.OMOGENIA.COM, Chat. Xulina Spathia Nikolas
Asimos
> + MP3. Non-Greek Mp3, Ti soukana ...
> http://www.yasou.com/mp3/
>
> and listen to the song I won't survive. It's very funny.
> Marianna
Thanks for the music, Marianna. I'm working on some new songs with a few
pals over the next few days for our upcoming Freedom Fest 3 gig, and I'll
play this for them.
Will
Self Portrait.
I'm an artist,
my face is the granite.
Watch me
see me build myself anew.
Crumble and dissolve
like idiot solvent.
These wrinkled eyes
seek out the idiot.
I create... myself.
From whatever pieces are handy,
and I walk---
a Golem with words to spare.
Like a pigmy-
like smoke in the air.
Like a reality that does not care.
Squint my eyes,
stoned in the glare.
Covered in patches
I'll have a Brandy Alexander.
Face like cut granite
stand me in some court square.
-Will Dockery
Will Dockery
"Karipidu" <kari...@aol.com> wrote
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> >One man, one ashtray,
> >the old man with beads paints alone.
> >The storm passes over,
> >Moon Child is always with him.
>
> >Mermaid's handbag, I find my cure,
> >near the salt water medicine.
> >Sanpipers dance, I watch the moves,
> >way off Broadway.
>
> >Far away now,
> >from the madness of erotic politics,
> >I think I should never return.
> >remain here, become pure again
> >among the thunderstorms and greensnakes.
>
> >The old man with beads
> >sings baritone in the shower.
> >The storms have passed over,
> >leaving sadness, uncertainty and hope.
>
> >Ancient energy here...
> >the moon shows up in late afternoon.
> >She's imitating a cloud.
> >Foamy egg moon we hatched from,
> >our ancient dust and rock birth sack.
>
> or
> An old man
> At the back of the noisy café
> bent over a table sits an old man;
>
> He knows he has aged much; he feels it, he sees it.
> And yet the time he was young seems
> like yesterday. How short a time, how short a time.
>
> And he ponders how Prudence deceived him;
> and how he always trusted her -- what a folly! --
> that liar who said: "Tomorrow. There is ample time."
>
> He remembers the impulses he curbed; and how much
> joy he sacrificed. Every lost chance
> now mocks his senseless wisdom.
>
> ...But from so much thinking and remembering
> the old man gets dizzy. And falls asleep
> bent over the café table.
Marianna
Nice poem, Marianna--- have you ever heard "Last Day On Earth" by Bob
Nuewirth and John Cale? "Old China" come to mind at first. I've got the
lyrics somewhere in a file, I'll round them up and post a few later
tonight... I wonder what a Google Search would manifest, now... I'll try
that as well.
Will
Coil
This coil of pain
memory burns
with flashing image
and haunting misses.
Distinct dream vision
mixed up with conciousness
train seems right on top of me
conductor has an agenda.
Only the god see beyond this veil
I seen them eyes
red blazing shaking.
No time to think,
no desire to.
There seems to be a wide awake
slow ride
conciousness carries
stretches through these years
these days... this minute.
As if the night could purify
rather than corrupt
my reptillian hands
my repitition in signs.
-Will Dockery
Will Dockery
> The Most Popular Cold Drink in Greece Today
>
> Frappe (NesCafe) can be served Cold or Hot.
>
> http://www.planetgr.com/fd/cafe1.shtml
In this current weather, I'll opt for "hot"!
Will