Two Little Things
Parnell247
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
>
> >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...
>
> No, I haven't heard it.
> Marianna
I'll post some of the lyrics, when I return to my home... at Parnell's
at the moment...
Will
Peter J Ross
> I'll post some of the lyrics, when I return to my home... at
> Parnell's at the moment... Will
Translation: "There are fewer people replying to my gibberish than
there used to be, so it's time to morph again."
--
PJR :-)
(Remove NOSPAM to reply)
Will Dockery
Lyrics
All lyrics by John Cale and Bob Neuwirth except "Ocean Life" additional
lyric by Jenny Muldaur
Overture - a) A Tourist - b) A Contact - c) A Prisoner
Excuse me, excuse me! Can you show me the way out of here?
Of course. This way. Just pass The Headless Horsemen, the Cafe Shabu.
And how far is that?
Not far. You're the tourist here, you should take it easy. If you can trust
a stranger, follow me.
I don't mind if I do. I'm a stranger here with a sense of regret that I'd
like to forget that I drank from a paranoid glass. I come from a paranoid
place. Sure, I spent time in prison. A prison of my own devices, haven't we
all? I'm a foreigner here and I'm feeling just a little worn. I'm looking
for points of importance and historical interest, trapped by the same rate
of exchange of that I'm running away from. And as we all know, we hate to
change.
But Change is a virtue, my friend. If you want to escape, all you have to do
is make up your mind.
But you're not a prisoner here, and I'm made to work with my hands, part of
my sentence for taking the licence to think of impossible plans. Working my
fingers to the bone, keeping my hands on the rungs of that ladder, that
leads us out of the gutter to the light. It's all been a big mistake. I've
done nothing wrong. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent here.
I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent
here. I'm just an innocent ...
Top
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----
Cafe Shabu
Welcome to the Cafe Shabu. Permit me to introduce you to some of our
regulars. Starting on my immediate left, ladies and gentlemen, here in Cafe
Shabu, you'll note a poet, a man of words by trade. And yes, that's a
refugee from an unnamed political philosophy, come here to spread his
message of joy and peace amongst us. Thank you very much sir. Over here,
next to him we see a lady who has traded-in a lifestyle of the rich and
famous for work with underprivileged and exceptional children which I am
sure makes her very pleased with herself, ladies and gentlemen. Sitting next
to her a man of letters and words and moods. A man who spent most of his
life deceiving himself and now finds himself facing six years in
rehabilitation prison and a death sentence on the outside. Sitting next to
him on a banquette, a ballerina. She's had two grapes, a raisin, and a
chicklet, and she's full. In fact, she's been stuffed for years. Next to her
are two spinsters knitting their way in and out of various predicaments
coloured by the excesses of their ancestors. And close by them, some surreal
painter's brooding over the very over-emphasis of colour-violence. Violence
on the blue end of the scale. Next to them, two off-duty detectives checking
each other out. Next door to the sugarholics, see them shivering, see them
staring into the distance, see them growing, oh, see them go comatose.
Insulin please, Maitre D'! On my immediate right several politicians smiling
lizard-like, see them assure themselves that their status is indeed quo.
Rip up the cheques said the Maitre D'. See if I care. I do this for the
company. I've got no-one to trust any secrets to but myself. In the
basement, in the vault, in the attic on the walls are the pictures I take in
part-payment for my time. And the waitress reminds you that in the backroom
bathed in red, glowing with the speed of light that reflects the demands of
the living for the dead, are our angels, a host at your service to meet your
every need. So order up, the waitress said. Our great cafe serves
everything.
Top
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----
Pastoral Angst
Welcome to the goldrush, ladies and gentlemen, where California begins and
maybe ends. California is the last stop on the great hitchhike west and now
it's getting a little full. Too many thumbs. Well, when you get too many
people in one place, you get intolerance and contempt and rigidity and
tension and sarcasm, distrust, anxiety, envy, hate, cynicism, discontent,
self-pity, malice, suspicion, jealousy and snobbishness. And this leads
right into poetry, painting, sculpture, dance, music and literature,
photography. These are known as the arts. And art will break your heart. So
what? So will a good meal. Art is not the spiritual side of
business-as-usual. And art is not for everyone. Never has been and it never
will be. Now me, I don't know much about art, but I do like what I know. You
know in these days when everybody is mistaking celebrity for talent,
ambition for genius, self-pity for humility, style for content and loathing
for love, they spend a lot of time getting in touch with themself. And then
they find self-justification, self-righteousness, self-obsession, self-pity,
self-loathing, self-concern, self-centredness, self-reliance, and
self-serving gratification.
Top
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----
Who's In Charge?
Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge?
Is it the Army? Is it the Money? Are you responsible? I'm not responsible.
You wanna die now? Why not, it's a good day to die.
Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in
charge? Who's in charge?
It's not the Pope. It's not the President. It's not the Rabbi. It's not the
Buddha. It's not the Natureman. It's not the Priest. It's not the Artists.
It's not the Geniuses. It's not the Audience. It's not the Critics. Cain and
Abel. Not Romulus and Remus.
Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge?
It's not the Doctors. It's not the Teachers. It's not the Detectives. It's
not the Scientists. It's not the Socialists. It's not the Computerists. It's
not the Teamsters. It's not the Comedians. It's the Outlaws. It's not the
Artists. It's the Futurists. It's not the Dadaists. It's the Soloists. It's
not the Audience. It's a Mountain. It's not Mohammed.
Who's in charge?
Top
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----
Short of Time
Wasting time, we wait for answers, everytime we throw the dice. Breaking
down all delusions, wasting time.
Finding time, we take no chances. Treating time, and pulling punches. Losing
time ruins the dance. Wasting time, wasting time.
Real time gives no comfort. Space and time, planets turn. Crying time, we
make the moments. Take their time.
Time is always on the menu. Killing time, there is no charge. Wasting time
is like old helpless, keeping time.
Top
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----
Angel of Death
Sushi for Shabu. You keep calling me. You keep calling me.
Angel of Death. I have thought I heard you singing. Angel of Death. I have
heard the flutter of your seductive wings. Angel of Death. I have seen you
counting on shadows. Angel of Death. I have watched you patiently waiting.
Angel of Death.
Angel of Death. I have felt the heat and the power. Angel of Death. Emerging
from your deadly silver tube. Angel of Death. Reflections of disaster the
morning after. Angel of Death. The stories everyone sees through. Angel of
Death.
Top
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----
Paradise Nevada
God knows how long she was waiting on the mountain, staring at the river,
watching all her dreams go by. Every single morning she sang of crystal
fountains, counting the days until she spread her wings and fly. She had her
eye on a man, the hero of the valley. Born in an alley wearing felony-shoes.
When it came to the ladies, that man became a legend, famous for his
freedom, free to pick and choose. Lay your money, lay your money down. Lay
your money, lay your money down.
It was a marriage made in heaven, meant for each other, natural born lovers
want to sing each other's song. It was too good to be true, too good not to
try, too soon to tell, it was too late to cry. There were shadows in the
kitchen, poison in the air. Secrets to be hidden, they were too much to
bear. It was lipstick for breakfast, and fine wine in a glass, resentments
in the mirror, there was no way it can last. Lay your money, lay your money
down. Lay your money, lay your money down.
There was static on the juke box and murder on their minds, money on the
table, there were walls left to climb. Lights across the water, and
fireworks in the sky, Paradise Nevada on the fifth night of July. Twisting
like a dancer she took everything he had. This side of Whiskey nothing cut
in half is bad. There are losses, there are debts, there are winners to be
found, there are wagers, there are bets, there are losers in the ground. Lay
your money, lay your money down. Lay your money, lay your money down.
Top
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Old China
Sitting 'round, talking 'bout old China and how the ladies hair will go to
grey, paying for a speedy revolution, hoping those fine lines will go away.
Someone screams about abuse of power, so lonely there was nothing left to
say, hoping for a speaking revolution, and wishing that the crimes would go
away.
Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.
Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.
Dealing with the mask of your deception, I threw that other chance away
today. I'd been asking for a speedy resolution, hoping other signs would go
away. Since sitting here, talking 'bout old china, and how old ladies hair
will go to grey, I'd been praying for a speedy resolution, expecting that
the time will slip away.
Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.
Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.
Top
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Ocean Life
The sky's full of dirty, aching air, that's burning a greasy yellow and
zooming slowly in on everyone, [untie] these fighting sunsets that will not
be fulfilled. The noise on her eyes is still there, even when the retina
peels in the strain of the dull, sacreligious commandment of an eye for an
eye or a tooth for a truth.
Even the ocean is ghettoized now, another dirty alleyway that leads nobody
home. When you're so young and full of expectations, you're looking for that
perfect wave and you'd like to ride them all. So I ask you from the bottom
of my heart, is that any way to treat your mother? Red, red, red river,
bloody ocean of [sorrowful] memories carry me to the deep blue sea. I hear
you. Calling me.
Is it true that virtue fell by the wayside? Not even a mark. And who will
lift the fog of bitterness, who [will sigh] the tide of regret? Who'll avoid
the undertow of sentimental drift? Who can live long on poetry and [wrath]?
I don't have the patience, but what does it cost on the open market? And who
can afford that?
I wanna be buried in the bottom of the ocean, like Shelly Winters in "The
Night of the Hunter". My hair abillowing, being kissed by the fishes, Sushi
for Shabu. If fishes were wishes I'd have you. I'd have you. Ahh, I've never
[felt one tremor] that is greed, envy, lust, gluttony, anger, pride.
Top
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Instrumental
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Modern World
In the shadows of the night come the friends of fantasy dancing forward
toward the dawn, wrapped in coats of vanity. In the closets in the home hang
the toasts of days gone by, breaking every haunted scheme confusing thoughts
with fantasy.
This is the modern world, this is the modern world, this is the modern
world.
In the backrooms where they wait, keeping time so patiently, playing cards
and casting lots, sit the last of judgement's [all]? In their confusion to
deceive, they miss the point so handily, filling every secret need. They
succeed perfectly. This is the modern world, this is the modern world, this
is the modern world.
Top
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Streets Come Alive
Desparation sets the clock, buried treasure, call the shots, family jewels
in the vault, sleep safe at any cost.
When the life begins to fade, snakes rattle in the cage, nasty creatures on
the crawl, nothing dead as much at all. Streets come alive after midnight.
Streets come alive after midnight.
Spot targets, pick and choose. Rage and pain are on the move. Fears, starts
to play a part, sending daggers to the heart. Dream scenes, forgotten lies,
nightmare noise and blinded eyes, crude smell and kerosene, broken glass and
strangled dreams. Streets come alive after midnight. Streets come alive
after midnight.
[Blocked/Splashed] up your burning nose, politics step on your toes,
day-break will bring you back, bright lights will make you crack. Streets
come alive after midnight. There are no guarantees after midnight. Eyes in
the skies after midnight. Fire in the skies after midnight.
Top
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Secrets
What do you think is going on here the old man said from his chair? Do You
think this is anything new? Now look here son. This is just like it was back
in the old days before the last war? Then the politics changed, the scene
rearranged and became how we know now is quo. Oh yeah, there were times when
everyone smiled and agreed that the good times would roll, but a heartbeat
away was the crime that did pay - the shot that was heard around the world.
If you go to sleep, the old man explained, you're just going to miss on your
turn. But if you stay awake the path that you take, may in fact become a
bridge to be burned.
And the old man turned away (Secrets) wiping his tears from his eyes. It's
already too late, he whispered, but that's certainly no reason to cry.
(Dirty little secrets) You see the last pioneer is waving his flag, framing
the organ bone by bone, burning in sections, twisting his flag and walking
on glass as he is clearing his tomb.
Yeah, nevertheless, there's no money, said the kid.
"Eh well, [half-price hookers are] watching the mast, the old man said,
prepared to face the music and laugh. Bring the shadows down on the heads of
the soft ladies that lie on their mechanical beds.
And nevertheless, there ain't no money, the kid said.
Well so call up a future and rewrite the past, said the old man. Raise the
hammer and stifle the news, polish the armour and dust off the grass.
There's more dead-end options here than we'll ever use.
But nevertheless, there's no money, said the kid.
Well, hell, there's glitter galore to tell you of gold. (Secrets)
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid.
(Secrets) [With second hand hardware all over the world?] (Dirty little
secrets)
Nevertheless there ain't no money.
Well listen, times are hard [but the crowd's flooding in].
Yeah, nevertheless there ain't no money.
Hey kid, [second class will sell to the valley again don't worry.]
But nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid.
Well, what do you want me to do about it? said the old man. I've come up
with every argument I can for the fact that the lawyers are leeching the
marrow out of the bone of anyone who's got an original idea in this country.
Well what country are you talking about? said the kid.
I'm talking about the country where my nephew drinks honey out of old orange
peels and plastic out of old BandAids. I'm talking about a country where the
sun never sets, I'm talking about a country where fish are the bricks that
build the edifices from which you can throw yourself in a veritable syndrome
of court reverence. Ahaha, greed [and guns and vests].
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid.
Marks and pounds and pieces of flesh? said the old man.
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid.
Hey,no protection is worth a damn, said the old man.
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid. They're sending the [waters
off Helega lamps].
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid.
They're carving the marble shape of the urn.
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid.
A goateed image in Turkish stone?
Nevertheless there ain't no money.
Oh God, said the kid, what am I going to do with my life now?
The woman settled for [anonymous/anomalous clothes and socks some place in
Vermont].
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the old man.
The young man is evidently not worth suing.
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the old man.
State of Vermont is in America? said the kid.
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the old man.
They're doing it again and again and again.
Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the old man.
Top
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Maps of the World
May I help you, sir?
Yes, I'd like to buy a map, please.
What kind of map?
As up-to-date as possible, I'm thinking of doing a bit of travelling and I
need
the latest world atlas.
I'm sorry but we may be in a bit of trouble there. All the maps are changing
so rapidly it's difficult to follow these days since the East has returned
to the dance floor.
Yes, I sense a loss of asimuth here, a falling off the edge of the world as
we know it, a scattering of temples, a wish for a more modern Cairo, a more
devisive equator, a more beautiful sunset, a bluer sky, tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow.
I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Gabon, Zaire, Congo, Rwanda.
I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Zimbabwe, Botswana, Lesotho,
Tansania.
The world changes partners to dance. Poor Libya, so misunderstood. The
mighty Zambezi, the windblown Kalahari, a wish for a more electronic
mailbox, a more African nightmare, a more vigorous Burundi, Mozambique
Electronique, the armies of Namibia. Angola, who is your Cuba now? Change
partners, the world wants to dance.
I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Somalia, Equatorial Guinea,
Cameroon, Togo. I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. [Tothigua],
Sierra Leone, Senegal, Western Sahara.
The maidens of Morocco, [Leniviso, Burkina Faso/Guinea Viso or Gena Pasa],
the riches of Liberia, a stranger symbolism, a sand-storm of antiquities, a
more beautiful sunset, a sparser continent, a bluer sky, a more disturbing
rhythm, an angrier drum-beat.
I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Estonia, Latvia, Kazakhstan,
Nashville. Changed partners again, changed partners just for the night.
[Ankara], [Enseno and Mardis,] Twin Cities, Reno.
I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. [Inuit], [Nome], Vancouver.
Changed partners again, changed partners just for the night. Afghanistan,
Sardinia, Peru. Changed partners again, changed partners just for the night.
Columbia, Argentina, France, Syria, Catalan, Oslo.
Top
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Broken Hearts
Consternation on the dance-floor I can't take it anymore. My ugly
girl-friend has these big eyes, she's running out the door. Get her back,
the regulars cry. All the bar-flies are going dry. We need some business
says the man reaching out with the greasy hand. We need some business says
the man with the broken heart.
Broken Hearts are good for business these days, broken hearts are good for
business always.
Mass confusion on the turnpike, which way did the lady go? Rumour has it she
was flying through the toll-booth down the road. Get her back, the troopers
cry, all the judges need a boost, bad reviews in the daily news, and the
chickens come home to roost.
Broken Hearts are good for business these days, broken hearts are good for
business always.
Top
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The High and Mighty Road
Before the end of the beginning, before the finish credits roll, there is a
brief but brutal truth along the high and mighty road. Faces tend to run
together, names be lost and legends told, of the ways to be forgiven on that
high and mighty road.
There is a will to test the power, there is the struggle for control of the
basic rights of passage along the high and mighty road.
It is a journey for the taking, it is a choice that can be made. It is the
soul that may be shaken, it is the spirit to be sane.
There is hypocrisy and wonder, when fortunes pale and empires fall. To an
ancient way of magic along a high and mighty road. Money changers seeking
payments for the privilage to be so bold, to say the train is not too
crowded for a high and mighty road. And the courage may be tested, by
judgement harsh and cold, from the monitors of progress along that high and
mighty road.
There are the words that have been spoken, there is the life that's been
portayed, it is a promise to be broken, it is the joy that dies in vain.
Pale treasure, fragile beauty, are the messages sent in code, we delivered
as nostalgic on that high and mighty road.
Sacrifice and deprivation are spiteful paradoxes sold as begrudging
restitutions along that high and mighty road.
And yet the faces, oh God the faces, they seldom change from young to old,
they only seem to grow more brazen, along the high and mighty road. It is
the future we are trading, it is the prices that we pay, it is the mind that
is mistaken, it is the heart we give away.
(c) Bob Nuewirth/John Cale
Peter J Ross
<snip>
At least most of these 550 lines of spam weren't written by you, and
are therefore unlikely to induce vomiting in people who accidently
read them.
Will Dockery
news:c0s3lo.3...@nntp.petitmorte.net...
> On 15 Feb 2004 21:01:34 -0800, Will Dockery wrote:
>
> <snip>
>
> At least most of these 550 lines of spam weren't written by you, and
> are therefore unlikely to induce vomiting in people who accidently
> read them.
> --
> PJR :-)
Yeah, but in the end, the above is *all* you produce. Go figure.
Will
Will Dockery
> >> Thank you for the comments, and I think you're correct. But my "purity"
> >> makes it difficult to admit that...
> >Anyone who knows anything about poetry knows that this is pure crap.
>
> OK. Why is it pure crap? I'm not baiting you. I sincerely want to know
if you
> say it's pure crap based on anything besides your dislike of the writer.
Karla
That's all he has left, Karla: a profoundly bitter dislike.
Will
Malted Bevis
> That's all he has left, Karla: a profoundly bitter dislike.
> Will
Who are you talking about?
----== Posted via Newsfeed.Com - Unlimited-Uncensored-Secure Usenet News==----
http://www.newsfeed.com The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! >100,000 Newsgroups
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Dennis M. Hammes
>
> > That's all he has left, Karla: a profoundly bitter dislike.
> > Will
While I'd not ordinarly respond to Will, I will remark that anybody
who experiences a profound or bitter dislike of /everything/ he
encounters should really have a look at calibrating the /observer/.
Beginning physicists, artists, psychologists, cooks, even
programmers, learn this almost immediately.
As it is, the only thing Bishop Tommy asserts to "like" are some
of the Dead Pomets, and when he tries to talk about them, we quickly
discover that the only thing he likes about them is that they are
Dead.
And can't object to his pawing them.
Whereas Bishop Tommy even objects to his pawing himself.
>
> Who are you talking about?
>
> ----== Posted via Newsfeed.Com - Unlimited-Uncensored-Secure Usenet News==----
> http://www.newsfeed.com The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! >100,000 Newsgroups
> ---= 19 East/West-Coast Specialized Servers - Total Privacy via Encryption =---
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
The sucking noises made by Babies is not law,
no matter how many of them *agree* that it is.
http://scrawlmark.org
Will Dockery
news:403202e8$1...@127.0.0.1...
>
> > That's all he has left, Karla: a profoundly bitter dislike.
> > Will
>
> Who are you talking about?
Hammes.
"Mirror Twins" Mp3:
http://music.lulu.com/content/29085
Mirror Twins.
Persi Phone
and
Prosper Pine
watch
birds fly
darkness went
as dawn
came
God ghost dreams
dazed dum
passing
fall flowers
clouded memories
his lost selves
frolic singing
gleam moon
wavering chaste
shadow likeness
doppelganger dark mate
dead nahh mo
peeps
human-godlike
swimming winter gray
folded arms
mastabatin peeps
first peeps
serpent-wanded power
downward Hex drift
spectres, lighted below
red race fiery
befell
re-arise
lighted
cry
Shadowville, Iowa, and more!
pleasant vale
Kite field ablaze
flowers brighten,
black blur
chasm blue `64
dark rising
folded arms
shudder
face like uh glass
gulf
shrilly whinings
pierce songful air
arch'd necks midnight-maned
Jet upward No!
touch'd space
blank earth-baldness
crocus-purple hour
seen ya vanish
gone
human wives nested
lioness search
palace cot grave
tittie
waking
one whole
wail midnight winds
night whined
climb'd cliffs seas
ask'd waves moan
round voices
eagle-speak
negroid woods
tomb caves torms
Autumn swept city
murmur
turn'd
fled
grieved
kudzu shatter'd
serpent coil'd broken shaft
scorpion naked skulls
tiger ruin'd fame
Spring fallen
not far
labyrinthine dark
three grays beneath gleaming
voice from three
spin lives
why we's spin
dying man
flits warns
far-off nahh more
o' dreams heard cry
Drew likeness o' himself
shadow past
brudda Dark one
Bright sworn child
Power
lifts
Bride o' Darkness.
Shadowville wail'd
coffee smack'd o' hemlock,
colt 45 tasted aconite.
lives loves an hour
hard Eternities
quick tears ravings hush'd
Bird utter grief
life thro vine
helpless
Rain-rotten died, spears
hollow-husk'd,leaf fell,
Pale grief before his tyme
Sickening winter snow.
glancing from his height
fallow, miss'd
steam sacrifice,
nine moons with him
Three dark ones
reaper gleam dawn
landmark far away
field in dusk
threshing-floor
harvest LaGrange
ill-content
highest gray fox
"Save me from you?"
down before us?
hurl thunderbolt
nuetron sword bearer
noon into nightbreak
sunless halls
dark lord
die into Light
bright year
themselves against fear
Queen o' Swords
risen from dead
with mine
buried springing blade
Autumn
harvest hymns
see nahh more
Stone Wheel
dimly-glimmering lawns
hateful fires
torment shadowy warrior glide
silent field
in the hood
-Will Dockery 2002
Will Dockery
>
> > He doesn't dislike me. He dislikes himself and wants to blame ...
I think you're refering to Houstman here, but any of the gang could be
inserted here: Hammes, Cook, Ross...
> I'm here to talk poetry not your deranged assessment
> of my mental state.
They go for the personal attacks because it appears their poetic wells are
dry--- when they post poems, on those rare days, they're empty lifeless
shells of craft. Much like a ritual magician who follows Crowley by the
book, every chalk mark, blood drop, sperm splatter in place, where the real
magick [don't forget the "k" and the silly robes] comes from a wave of the
hand and a Kibosh. Natural magic trumps the academic *magick* every time. Ma
Sue and her graveyard dirt.
> I like the good poetry that is posted here, and have commented
> favorably on it frequently, and will continue.
Bravo, that's the Tom Bishop I remember from when I first arrived--- it's
the agenda for the Usenet mob to drive as many people away from *their*
newsgroups as possible, some cowardly savage urge they can't resist--- not
just in the poetry groups, but in "alt.pagan", "alt.zines"... even in
"alt.pizza.delivery.drivers", and hundreds more.
I've found newsgroups that go against this trend: "alt.fan.james-bond" and
"alt.tv.mash" come to mind.
> You are simply /hurt in your broken hat/.
Renay has the best hat...
> I just posted several poems that I like by dead people.
Night of the living poets.
> If you even post *one* /really/ striking and beautiful image,
> I am likely to applaud it.
They're not into beauty. Beauty's one of those bad words, like love.
> It is you that are bitter, due to your failed life.
Dead poets.
> I thought we had covered that.
Which one's covering the morning shift...
Will
http://www.lulu.com/content/29085
> Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> "The world is full of asses, but muleshit grows lilacs."
> -- Dennis M. Hammes
Will Dockery
> > > >> 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?
> > >
> > > <snip>
> > >
> > > >Anyone who knows anything about poetry knows that this is pure crap.
> > >
> > > OK. Why is it pure crap? I'm not baiting you. I sincerely want to
know if you
> > > say it's pure crap based on anything besides your dislike of the
writer.
> >
> > No Karla.
> >
> > If a total stranger were to post this I might not comment,
> > but I would veiw it as a relatively nothing posting.
> >
> > It has to do with what I expect from poetry, and my
> > own preferences.
> >
> > Of course I could restrict my comments to what I /liked/ about it,
> > and make Dale a happy little puppy (and have done that also,
> > promoting his art and poetry to the tune of thousands of reads).
> >
> > I think it is hilarious that Dale, who has such a ridiculously
> > pompous philosophical outlook on poetry, is also more emotional
> > than the newbies WRT any criticism.
> >
> > I might be more gentle, but Karla dear, you are ALL
> > watching Michael Cook steal my photo and harass me,
> > and only pandora has explicitly stated that she thinks it is
> > crass and illegal.
> >
> > I came to these newsgroups for poetry, and /that/ is still what
> > I am interested in (albeit some interest in using it to test my
> > Usenet posting technology).
> >
> > It never occured to me that people were so immature as to
> > act like Peter Ross and Michael Cook, and don't forget
> > el Grande Baby Hammes. I mean, I was in software.
>
> As long as your Mommy didn't forget the fabric softener, anyway.
You're so full of shit, Hammes. I can just see you giggling until your belly
jiggles as you type this.
> > Most of the people I worked with had Masters degrees
> > or better.
>
> Most of the people I worked with had Doctorates and security
> clearances.
> Remarkably like myself, actually.
> >
> > Usenet is the bottom of the barrel. A congregation of failed
> > writers. Go figger.
> >
> > I'm a hobbyist, here to have fun.
>
> We /still/ don't know why, since you can play with yourself
> /anywhere/.
> In bed, e.g.
> Or a wheelchair...
Or, in your case, Hammes, on Usenet.
> > I am not here to be fucked with by the likes of pissants like
> > Michael Cook and Dennis Hammes.
Mikey!
> And you can avoid this, /how/, O Master Programmer who knew somebody
> who knew somebody who had a Master's Degree?
> >
> > I would like to killfile them all, but Mikey continues
> > to steal my photo, which I will seek a lawyer about today.
If you get some cash out of this, keep us posted...
> > You just posted a nice poem, but you whine (seemingly
> > about me) too much.
> >
> > --
> > Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> > Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
> > -- Robert Frost
> >
> > >
> > > Karla
Ah, Hell, I hit "paste" and the words below came out, might as well leave
'em, Cohen's one Hell of a guy:
THERE IS A WAR
There is a war between the rich and poor,
a war between the man and the woman.
There is a war between the ones who say there is a war
and the ones who say there isn't.
Why don't you come on back to the war, that's right, get in it,
why don't you come on back to the war, it's just beginning.
Well I live here with a woman and a child,
the situation makes me kind of nervous.
Yes, I rise up from her arms, she says "I guess you call this love";
I call it service.
Why don't you come on back to the war, don't be a tourist,
why don't you come on back to the war, before it hurts us,
why don't you come on back to the war, let's all get nervous.
You cannot stand what I've become,
you much prefer the gentleman I was before.
I was so easy to defeat, I was so easy to control,
I didn't even know there was a war.
Why don't you come on back to the war, don't be embarrassed,
why don't you come on back to the war, you can still get married.
There is a war between the rich and poor,
a war between the man and the woman.
There is a war between the left and right,
a war between the black and white,
a war between the odd and the even.
Why don't you come on back to the war, pick up your tiny burden,
why don't you come on back to the war, let's all get even,
why don't you come on back to the war, can't you hear me speaking?
-Leonard Cohen
Will Dockery
news:40320F02...@arvig.net...
> Malted Bevis wrote:
> >
> > > That's all he has left, Karla: a profoundly bitter dislike.
> > > Will
>
> While I'd not ordinarly respond to Will, I will remark that anybody
> who experiences a profound or bitter dislike of /everything/ he
> encounters should really have a look at calibrating the /observer/.
So, I have to ask, what do you like, Hammes?
> Beginning physicists, artists, psychologists, cooks, even
> programmers, learn this almost immediately.
> As it is, the only thing Bishop Tommy asserts to "like" are some
> of the Dead Pomets, and when he tries to talk about them, we quickly
> discover that the only thing he likes about them is that they are
> Dead.
I think that's a bit of a shallow assesment. I saw Tom like some undead poet
just the other day, J. Lanier or somebody.
> And can't object to his pawing them.
> Whereas Bishop Tommy even objects to his pawing himself.
> >
> > Who are you talking about?
Take your pick: Hammes, Cook, Ross, Sherman...
http://music.lulu.com/content/29085
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:40325873$1...@news1.knology.net...
> "Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote in message
> news:403202e9$1...@127.0.0.1...
> >
> > > He doesn't dislike me. He dislikes himself and wants to blame ...
>
> I think you're refering to Houstman here, but any of the gang could be
> inserted here: Hammes, Cook, Ross...
No, that was Houstman talking about me.
>
> > I'm here to talk poetry not your deranged assessment
> > of my mental state.
>
> They go for the personal attacks because it appears their poetic wells are
> dry--- when they post poems, on those rare days, they're empty lifeless
> shells of craft.
None of us is anything much.
But then, "we are such things as dreams are made on"
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Whether you think that you can,
or that you can't, you are usually right."
-- Henry Ford
Will Dockery
> > > > He doesn't dislike me. He dislikes himself and wants to blame ...
> >
> > I think you're refering to Houstman here, but any of the gang could be
> > inserted here: Hammes, Cook, Ross...
>
> No, that was Houstman talking about me.
>
> >
> > > I'm here to talk poetry not your deranged assessment
> > > of my mental state.
> >
> > They go for the personal attacks because it appears their poetic wells
are
> > dry--- when they post poems, on those rare days, they're empty lifeless
> > shells of craft.
>
> None of us is anything much.
>
> But then, "we are such things as dreams are made on"
>
>
> --
> Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> "Whether you think that you can,
> or that you can't, you are usually right."
> -- Henry Ford
Kind of interesting how so many of the characters in the Usenet epic are
interchangable...
From: Superczar
To: sfb...@yahoogroups.com
Sent: Tuesday, February 17, 2004 9:17 AM
Subject: [sfblue] Welcome Dee!
4:12pm (UK)
Former Member of Jethro Tull Changes Sex
By Sherna Noah, Showbusiness Correspondent, PA News
A former member of the Seventies rock band Jethro Tull has had a sex-
change operation to become a woman, it was revealed today.
David Palmer, the band's 66-year-old ex-keyboard player, has swapped
his trademark beard for long blonde hair and make-up and is now
called Dee. She is recording her first solo album.
The former soldier in the Royal Horse Guards said that she had "felt
like this since the age of three" but that it was only since the
death of wife Margaret nine years ago that the feelings were pursued.
She told the Daily Mirror: "I want to be judged on my musical ability
alone, and nothing else.
"It's not just wimps who want to do this. To be a girl, it goes a lot
deeper than that."
The guiding force behind Jethro Tull – Ian Anderson – released a
statement, saying he hoped fans would accept Dee as a woman.
"I have known for the past two years of David Palmer's intention to
undergo gender-changing procedures and, like many other people who
have known David for three decades as a bearded, pipe-smoking man's
man, I found it difficult to understand at first," he said.
"But I fully support his decision to undertake a new life as a woman.
"To the many fans of Jethro Tull, I can only offer that they should
accept Dee Palmer for her new persona and hope that they enjoy her
musical activities in the future."
He added: "The moment when the new Palmer identity was revealed to me
was when the then, still David, phoned me to say `Ian, there's
something I need to get off my increasingly ample chest'."
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:40326...@news1.knology.net...
> "Dennis M. Hammes" <scraw...@arvig.net> wrote in message
> news:40320F02...@arvig.net...
> > Malted Bevis wrote:
> > >
> > > > That's all he has left, Karla: a profoundly bitter dislike.
> > > > Will
> >
> > While I'd not ordinarly respond to Will, I will remark that anybody
> > who experiences a profound or bitter dislike of /everything/ he
> > encounters should really have a look at calibrating the /observer/.
>
> So, I have to ask, what do you like, Hammes?
>
> > Beginning physicists, artists, psychologists, cooks, even
> > programmers, learn this almost immediately.
> > As it is, the only thing Bishop Tommy asserts to "like" are some
> > of the Dead Pomets, and when he tries to talk about them, we quickly
> > discover that the only thing he likes about them is that they are
> > Dead.
>
> I think that's a bit of a shallow assesment. I saw Tom like some undead poet
> just the other day, J. Lanier or somebody.
Indeed, all the time. Any other conclusion is impossible from
a complete reading of my postings.
Just recently, J Rinier, Jennifer, Idita and
others will happen with regular frequency
(albeit statistically shitty).
..but I do like the title: "Mostly Dead Poets" for my list. :-)
One of my favorite poems of all time is Hammes Sonnet #2
..he knows this.
As though bees knew the brevity of best,
The fullest lilac is alive with stings;
And though this prime must fall, it ever brings
Broad wonder at how every breath is dressed,
And inspiration at the breath's behest
That joy is highest that must dance to strings :
A cricket has a year to wear its wings,
And still -- and that is why -- they are caressed.
Then lilac has more beauty than a brief
Whose brevity is argued by the deaf
Whose credence is the requisite of creed,
And bees and I don't quibble at the doom
That we must fumble blooms while they are bloom,
For we inherited a quitclaim deed.
This is really nice for me in that it climaxes (for me)
in L13, and then such a nice ending. Numerous beautiful lines.
I love this.
It was always solidly in MDP, but just wasn't inserted yet.
Done now.
Over the time, I've corrected Dennis' spelling, and helped him with
word choices, promoted his prosody manual etc.
(I have seen no one be so positive of Dennis.)
He was interesting (usually) for a long time, but turned on me
WRT dictionary tools. His underlying 'failed life' thing
conspires to make him unpalatable, except in a killfile.
The condescending attitude, and his "holy powowers" is just
too much sludge to wade through every day.
Whoever can believe whatever, but I have no problem liking
and promoting poetry by people that I killfile.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"When it comes to a choice between two evils,
I always choose the one I haven't tried before."
-- Mae West
Malted Bevis
> From: Superczar
> To: sfb...@yahoogroups.com
> Sent: Tuesday, February 17, 2004 9:17 AM
> Subject: [sfblue] Welcome Dee!
>
TS's are really something.
I had a kinky dating site a few years ago,
and the TS's were a kick.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
Your primary error lies in your inane belief
that /you/ constitute an "ordered system."
-- Dennis M. Hammes
Will Dockery
>
> > From: Superczar
> > To: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/sfblue
> > Sent: Tuesday, February 17, 2004 9:17 AM
> > Subject: [sfblue] Welcome Dee!
> >
>
> TS's are really something.
>
> I had a kinky dating site a few years ago,
> and the TS's were a kick.
>
>
> --
> Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> Your primary error lies in your inane belief
> that /you/ constitute an "ordered system."
> -- Dennis M. Hammes
It really helps if they're pretty.
Will
"Greybeard cavalier" Mp3:
http://music.lulu.com/content/26663
Malted Bevis
> > And you can avoid this, /how/, O Master Programmer who knew somebody
> > who knew somebody who had a Master's Degree?
I've taken a fellowed professor of UC Berkeley and his family
for an airplane ride to Santa Rosa, as one example.
Numerous Masters and several PhD's have trusted me with their life.
Dennis taught fat women to dance, since he couldn't make money
selling poetry.
My hero. :-)
He /must/ know my life better than me.
> > >
> > > I would like to killfile them all, but Mikey continues
> > > to steal my photo, which I will seek a lawyer about today.
>
> If you get some cash out of this, keep us posted...
Seems doubtful, but yes. It would be quite sweet.
I would really just like to killfile mikey.
Giving him any attention has a negative effect.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways
that won't work." - Thomas Alva Edison
Malted Bevis
> > --
> > Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> > Your primary error lies in your inane belief
> > that /you/ constitute an "ordered system."
> > -- Dennis M. Hammes
>
> It really helps if they're pretty.
> Will
Most are not, but some are quite sweet.
I have a friend that has a TS lover,
and have met several at parties.
It must be an intense dynamic to cause someone
to rearrange their genitals that way.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Drink more de-cafe!"
- an anonymous friend
Will Dockery
>
> > > --
> > > Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> > > Your primary error lies in your inane belief
> > > that /you/ constitute an "ordered system."
> > > -- Dennis M. Hammes
> >
> > It really helps if they're pretty.
> > Will
>
> Most are not, but some are quite sweet.
>
> I have a friend that has a TS lover,
> and have met several at parties.
>
> It must be an intense dynamic to cause someone
> to rearrange their genitals that way.
My several years in Atlanta back in the early 1980s educated me in that
"scene", "culture", whatever the right word would be--- a "sub genre" of the
larger "gay" world... I was the token bumpkin from Alabama [this insult
doesn't hit nearly as hard as the flamers who use it from time to time
probably think it does--- I know who I am and where I come from, my father's
family is Tennessee/Virgina based, and my mother's is deadcenter deep South]
watching everything with what I considered a camera eye. A few days after my
arrival in Atlanta I was walking around a really great area [long since
demolished] with a fantastic collection of bookstores, bars, a crumbly
little moviehouse [where I was able to watch, and read like comic books, the
films of Godard and his other New Wave pals, wonderful poetic films] a
Woolworths and other important stores. My wife Kathy was working, and this
being 1980, and me about twenty, I was enjoying a bit of freedom.
A drop dead gorgeous blonde was getting out of her car, and I said "Howdy
ma'am" in my best James Dean.
She replied "Hey..." in a baritone at least a notch deeper than mine. My
first meeting with an actual drag queen! No more conversation with "her",
but that was a definate indication that I was *not* in Shadowville any more!
For those out there who may not know the customs of the South, we nod and
speak to *everybody* we meet. Rudeness is not acceptable. Even to
non-tippers.
I met many of the local punks during the next few months--- and wrote words
to their musical crashes, before crashing--- this was during the time when
it seemed possible, even certain, that New Wave/punk/etc. could change the
world. I think that ended with the shooting of Jack The Lad [Lennon], though
we wheezed on for another year or two...
After The Shooting Of Jack The Lad.
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
In the punk crowd was the brother of one of the Black flag/Iggy
Pop/reconstructed rednecks I enjoyed swilling 25 cent draft beer with at
Ken's Tavern after work, the names are escaping me at the moment, that'll
resurface soon, I guess, as I wind through this memory trip [is anyone
reading? well, I write for myself if nobody else] of happier days, when the
future seemed bright--- how I loved my little summer babe, and still do...
[ref: "A Prayer For Kathy"]hmmm, hopelessly I digress...
The subject was drag queens and related characters, and I've had platonic
friendships with a couple. Shadowville ain't quite conductive to that sort
of lifestyle, this is a hardball conservative town from the day they marched
the Indians away in a trail of tears, and maybe before that, but they exist,
and one place they can always feel welcome is at the poetry scene. Mostly
homophobic, but accepting, in an odd way.
"Mirror Twins" Mp3:
http://music.lulu.com/content/29085
> Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
> "Drink more de-cafe!"
> - an anonymous friend
"Drink to me."
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
>
>
> >From: "Will Dockery" irony...@knology.net
> >In this current weather, I'll opt for "hot"!
> >Will
>
> Yeah, me too.
> Crown with a generous scoop of whipped cream and
> lightly sprinkle with semi-sweet chocolate and enjoy it.
> I do that every morning.
>
>
> Marianna
Nice image.
Will
J Rinier
<irony...@knology.net> wrote:
>"Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote in message
>news:403202e9$1...@127.0.0.1...
>>
>> > He doesn't dislike me. He dislikes himself and wants to blame ...
>
>I think you're refering to Houstman here, but any of the gang could be
>inserted here: Hammes, Cook, Ross...
"They, They, They, or They. Meanies."
>
>> I'm here to talk poetry not your deranged assessment
>> of my mental state.
>
>They go for the personal attacks because it appears their poetic wells are
>dry--- when they post poems, on those rare days, they're empty lifeless
>shells of craft.
So you'd prefer a broken door to one that works because the carpenter
who hung the broken door put 'feeling' into it?
Craft is a simple concept, Dicklery. It refers to the process that
culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
> Much like a ritual magician who follows Crowley by the
>book, every chalk mark, blood drop, sperm splatter in place, where the real
>magick [don't forget the "k" and the silly robes] comes from a wave of the
>hand and a Kibosh. Natural magic trumps the academic *magick* every time. Ma
>Sue and her graveyard dirt.
>
>> I like the good poetry that is posted here, and have commented
>> favorably on it frequently, and will continue.
>
>Bravo, that's the Tom Bishop I remember from when I first arrived--- it's
>the agenda for the Usenet mob to drive as many people away from *their*
>newsgroups as possible, some cowardly savage urge they can't resist
Right.
If a person can't play basketball-- simply has no natural talent for
it at all-- you don't encourage him or her to dedicate themselves to
the pursuit of it.
If anything is cowardly or savage, it's encouraging a person to
believe a lie that when eventually revealed will prove exponentially
more destructive than an initial harsh truth.
<idiot-burble snipped>
J Rinier
## The world, you must remember, is only just
becoming literate.
Aldous Huxley ##
Will Dockery
> And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
It works fine, JR. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
Will
Malted Bevis
> Craft is a simple concept,
And so is humanity.
> Dicklery. It refers to the process that
> culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
> poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
> it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
True in general, but didn't you just hear it?
People steal his performance art and sell it for $5.
None of your *well oiled* poetry would make a nickle.
The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
to /YOU/ (too much).
Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
> And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
He /IS/ making poetry /work/.
You are asking him to make it work in a way that less people
(your type) would like it.
Bell curve, remember.
Hey... I don't read Will's poetry because it isn't to my taste.
I've told him about it honestly, and he doesn't seem to be that
hurt.
Compare to Dale, who is a consumate BABY, who has
hissy fits about any criticism, and writes poetry that is
as lacking as poems written by Dockery.
This "Two Things", I say is total horseshit.
Feel free to tell me what you think is redeeming about it.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"If you don't like sonnets just think of them as
quatorzains with pecuriar rhyme schemes."
-- just me
Dennis M. Hammes
> > >
> > > It never occured to me that people were so immature as to
> > > act like Peter Ross and Michael Cook, and don't forget
> > > el Grande Baby Hammes. I mean, I was in software.
> >
> > As long as your Mommy didn't forget the fabric softener, anyway.
>
> You're so full of shit, Hammes. I can just see you giggling until your belly
> jiggles as you type this.
It's quite the barrel, innit? And you can still sprain your wrist
if you punch it hard enough.
>
> > > Most of the people I worked with had Masters degrees
> > > or better.
> >
> > Most of the people I worked with had Doctorates and security
> > clearances.
> > Remarkably like myself, actually.
> > >
> > > Usenet is the bottom of the barrel. A congregation of failed
> > > writers. Go figger.
> > >
> > > I'm a hobbyist, here to have fun.
> >
> > We /still/ don't know why, since you can play with yourself
> > /anywhere/.
> > In bed, e.g.
> > Or a wheelchair...
>
> Or, in your case, Hammes, on Usenet.
I'm just keeping up an experiment to see how long it takes you and a
couple others to see that there's /any/ difference between a
Doctorate and a Dockery (besides a couple letters; chapters of
dogma, even whole religions, have been founded on monkeys' noticing
/that/ sort of difference).
I'm not likely to live long enough for you to figure out /what/
the difference is, so that's not part of the experiment; I detest
dissapointing experiments.
And here is another, wherein I once again spank my monkey so
carefully, and you come along and merely prove yourself so stupid as
to assert that /I'm/ playing with myself on UseNet, when it was just
pointed out to you (and in so many words of only one syllable, too)
that Bishop Tommy comes here (i.e., UseNet, since you hadn't
noticed) to play with himself.
Of course, since Bishop Tommy sucks /you/, you can't afford to say
anything "bad" about him or he'll withdraw his Bishopric Assertion
that your daily drool is any approach to human language.
It does provide an opportunity to measure how fast (in one case)
two monkeys who assert they're typing Shakespeare converge on the
few words they actually know, when they accidentally start typing to
/each other/.
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> > > And you can avoid this, /how/, O Master Programmer who knew somebody
> > > who knew somebody who had a Master's Degree?
>
> I've taken a fellowed professor of UC Berkeley and his family
> for an airplane ride to Santa Rosa, as one example.
>
> Numerous Masters and several PhD's have trusted me with their life.
While only a major trusted his life to my control of a vehicle, it
was convoy-chasing, which produced the occasional hilarious moment.
And only a few rankers "local" to my office in one brigade HQ
trusted my ability to see in the dark.
But an entire MI Division trusted my /programming/ with their
lives. When that trust proved to work reliably, it was taken up by
USAREUR and CONUS.
You can get the colonels and the generals and the masters and the
PhDs from the list.
>
> Dennis taught fat women to dance, since he couldn't make money
> selling poetry.
Good heavens, boi, fat people don't take dance lessons; they think
they already know how. They jump vigorously, bounce off each other,
and call it "polka."
The girls I taught had tits and asses that stuck out in places I
don't even have places.
(Why do you think we invent, and teach, ways to make 'em stick out
even farther? "With 'er 'ead tooked oonderneath 'er arm...")
Besides, when I taught dance, I wasn't even /writing/ poultry. I
was doing a year's sabbatical on the nature of human programming.
Kept coming up "Garbage In, Garbage Out" in that computer, too.
Will Dockery
> The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
> to /YOU/ (too much).
>
> Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
> Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
Funny... the kid's a riot. The biggest laugh I got last night was when
I came onto the stage and introduced the band to the audience, ending
with: "...and I'm Hank Sinatra, Frank's bastard son."
Then they kicked into gear, well oiled indeed, with intense sound that
matched the mood of the year for me--- as some have noticed, not
exactly the happiest year of my life.
Working with three of the best musicians in town, Henry Conley's
snapping guitar, minimal percussion from Dorundo Jenkins, and the
return of Carl Gates and his miraculous six string bass. It would have
been a perfact night to videotape, but as it was, just another night
etched in time. It worked out so well that this trio got the gig for
Friday and Saturday nights, with me to swing in for the closing set.
Several of the song/poems we did, in very retooled versions--- this
was an acoustic based sound, are here:
"Mirror Twins":
http://music.lulu.com/content/29085
"Black Eagle Lady" [with the new line "Silver teardrops under a pale
green moon", the one's really evolving]:
http://music.lulu.com/content/26894
"Greybeard Cavaler":
http://music.lulu.com/content/26663
> > And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
>
> He /IS/ making poetry /work/.
It works overtime.
> You are asking him to make it work in a way that less people
> (your type) would like it.
>
> Bell curve, remember.
>
> Hey... I don't read Will's poetry because it isn't to my taste.
> I've told him about it honestly, and he doesn't seem to be that
> hurt.
For one thing, Tom lays it out like a man, straight up, without baby
talk. I don't expect everyone to like the poems, but don't expect me
to pack it up and cower off because they're not to your taste, either.
I plan to be around for a while.
> Compare to Dale, who is a consumate BABY, who has
> hissy fits about any criticism, and writes poetry that is
> as lacking as poems written by Dockery.
Shadowville Ballet.
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
> This "Two Things", I say is total horseshit.
I'd wager Tom's 30 foot boat that if that poem had my name on it, it
would get the criticism it really deserves. Apparently, most chose to
ignore it and hope it would go away. A look at this thread on Google
shows that Houseman posted it once in September, and only Tom
responded. He posted it again this month... at least a few of his
groupies showed up.
> Feel free to tell me what you think is redeeming about it.
I'm flattered that he tried to steal my style, but how will it play in
Peoria?
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> > Craft is a simple concept,
>
> And so is humanity.
>
> > Dicklery. It refers to the process that
> > culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
> > poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
> > it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
>
> True in general, but didn't you just hear it?
> People steal his performance art and sell it for $5.
No. /Babies/ steal his babyshit because it *agrees* with them.
And they trade it for Johnson's Baby-Wipes with the number "5" and
the word "God" on them.
Johnson's Baby-Wipes are not money nor redeemable for money
(however God might like them and the Baby certainly thinks he's Got
Something).
>
> None of your *well oiled* poetry would make a nickle.
But only because you don't have a nickel.
But I'll accept all the L.B.Johnson's Baby-Wipes (Federal Reserve
Notes) you offer.
At 100% discount. (Hey, I'm a sovereign trader in commercial debt
paper.)
Will Dockery
> Bishop Tommy thinks that the Man In Black is /cool/,
*snip*
Johnny Cash *was* cool... you, my barrell bellied friend, are not.
Here, clean out your ears with these *two little things*:
"Bang" Mp3:
http://www.yeahyeahyeahs.com/bang.mp3
"Art Star" Mp3:
http://www.yeahyeahyeahs.com/art_star.mp3
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <dock...@yahoo.com> wrote in message news:bdb44a4f.04021...@posting.google.com...
> "Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote
>
> > The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
> > to /YOU/ (too much).
> >
> > Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
> > Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
>
> Funny... the kid's a riot. The biggest laugh I got last night was when
> I came onto the stage and introduced the band to the audience, ending
> with: "...and I'm Hank Sinatra, Frank's bastard son."
In some sense, rikky has his place, just like pandora,
but he thinks that he has the only formula, and is lippy
like pandora. I don't like either of your formulas for poetry, but
rikky pounds his chest like some Goliath, another value-added-savior
to poetry, Oh Boy! ...but I say talentless pissant.
> Then they kicked into gear, well oiled indeed, with intense sound that
> matched the mood of the year for me--- as some have noticed, not
> exactly the happiest year of my life.
Don't get me started.
> > Hey... I don't read Will's poetry because it isn't to my taste.
> > I've told him about it honestly, and he doesn't seem to be that
> > hurt.
>
> For one thing, Tom lays it out like a man, straight up, without baby
> talk. I don't expect everyone to like the poems, but don't expect me
> to pack it up and cower off because they're not to your taste, either.
> I plan to be around for a while.
Outlive me, no fucking doubt.
>
> > This "Two Things", I say is total horseshit.
>
> I'd wager Tom's 30 foot boat that if that poem had my name on it, it
> would get the criticism it really deserves. Apparently, most chose to
> ignore it and hope it would go away. A look at this thread on Google
> shows that Houseman posted it once in September, and only Tom
> responded. He posted it again this month... at least a few of his
> groupies showed up.
When he begged.
>
> > Feel free to tell me what you think is redeeming about it.
>
> I'm flattered that he tried to steal my style, but how will it play in
> Peoria?
Well, this one I doubt would play anywhere.
Dale simply needs to reshuffle the cards and cut again.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever."
-- Napoleon Bonaparte
Will Dockery
news:40338198...@arvig.net...
> Malted Bevis wrote:
> >
> > > Craft is a simple concept,
> >
> > And so is humanity.
> >
> > > Dicklery. It refers to the process that
> > > culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
> > > poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
> > > it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
I can't agree, obviously. It gets me where I want to go, and very smoothly:
http://music.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3
> > True in general, but didn't you just hear it?
> > People steal his performance art and sell it for $5.
Truman Bentley
P.O.Box 8691
Columbus GA 31909
> No. /Babies/ steal his babyshit because it *agrees* with them.
*agrees*?
> And they trade it for Johnson's Baby-Wipes with the number "5" and
> the word "God" on them.
> Johnson's Baby-Wipes are not money nor redeemable for money
> (however God might like them and the Baby certainly thinks he's Got
> Something).
My God, the garbage you write, Skipper. Talk about baby shit, this is the
runny gunk of a fat old man.
Will Dockery
> > > The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
> > > to /YOU/ (too much).
> > >
> > > Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
> > > Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
> >
> > Funny... the kid's a riot. The biggest laugh I got last night was when
> > I came onto the stage and introduced the band to the audience, ending
> > with: "...and I'm Hank Sinatra, Frank's bastard son."
>
> In some sense, rikky has his place, just like pandora,
> but he thinks that he has the only formula, and is lippy
> like pandora. I don't like either of your formulas for poetry, but
> rikky pounds his chest like some Goliath, another value-added-savior
> to poetry, Oh Boy! ...but I say talentless pissant.
I still say there's room for all of us on the stage.
> > Then they kicked into gear, well oiled indeed, with intense sound that
> > matched the mood of the year for me--- as some have noticed, not
> > exactly the happiest year of my life.
>
> Don't get me started.
Yeah, and I don't need to start on it, either.
> > > Hey... I don't read Will's poetry because it isn't to my taste.
> > > I've told him about it honestly, and he doesn't seem to be that
> > > hurt.
> >
> > For one thing, Tom lays it out like a man, straight up, without baby
> > talk. I don't expect everyone to like the poems, but don't expect me
> > to pack it up and cower off because they're not to your taste, either.
> > I plan to be around for a while.
>
> Outlive me, no fucking doubt.
Outlive a few, I'm afraid. But it ain't over yet, and things can change.
Personally, I hope you hang on, if for nothing else, to deny the Tom haters
the collective sigh of relief, if you were to vanish.
> > > This "Two Things", I say is total horseshit.
> >
> > I'd wager Tom's 30 foot boat that if that poem had my name on it, it
> > would get the criticism it really deserves. Apparently, most chose to
> > ignore it and hope it would go away. A look at this thread on Google
> > shows that Houseman posted it once in September, and only Tom
> > responded. He posted it again this month... at least a few of his
> > groupies showed up.
>
> When he begged.
I missed the begging... is it in this, the "Two Little Things" thread?
> > > Feel free to tell me what you think is redeeming about it.
> >
> > I'm flattered that he tried to steal my style, but how will it play in
> > Peoria?
>
> Well, this one I doubt would play anywhere.
>
> Dale simply needs to reshuffle the cards and cut again.
"a van full of roses
bulging in a grocery bag
or not"
Can you imagine the howls if I wrote these lines of unspeakable shit?
or this:
"under the blue trees
which are literary"
Though I like the "blue trees", and "van full of roses" also has
possibilities. Too bad they lead to nothing.
Really, reminds me of a parody, or imitation, of Will Dockery by someone who
doesn't understand what I'm doing
That should get this thread going. I happily await the hordes to descend,
and defend Dale's "poem".
"Mirror Twins":
http://music.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3
Malted Bevis
> My God, the garbage you write, Skipper. Talk about baby shit, this is the
> runny gunk of a fat old man.
He hardly comes through a killfile.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"The world is full of asses, but muleshit grows lilacs."
-- Dennis M. Hammes
Will Dockery
>
> > My God, the garbage you write, Skipper. Talk about baby shit, this is
the
> > runny gunk of a fat old man.
>
>
> He hardly comes through a killfile.
You same Hammes belly slop. Speaking of earwax, Mikey Cook's been pretty
silent the last day or so... no new picture galleries that I've noticed.
Perhaps he recieved a "Cease & Desist" in the snail mail..?
Will
"under the blue trees
which are literary"
Do tell.
Will Dockery
> the
> > > runny gunk of a fat old man.
> >
> >
> > He hardly comes through a killfile.
>
> You same Hammes belly slop.
Hmmm... caffiene overdose, today, a keyboard fingerslip. This was supposed
to read:
"You ain't missing anything, same Hammes belly slop."
Malted Bevis
> "You ain't missing anything, same Hammes belly slop."
He needs me for little things like:
- the spelling of major poetic forms
- basic boat physics (new this week)
- and to remind him to read his AD paper
I'm happy to help.
> Speaking of earwax, Mikey Cook's been pretty
> > silent the last day or so... no new picture galleries that I've noticed.
> > Perhaps he recieved a "Cease & Desist" in the snail mail..?
It is up to him what he does.
He knows what I'm doing.
I only have these questions for him
right now:
- What is your address?
- Will you disobey a court order?
Maybe I'll have more after meeting with the lawyer.
..obviously how judgement proof he is has a big bearing.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever."
-- Napoleon Bonaparte
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:40339...@news2.knology.net...
> "Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote
>
> > > > The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
> > > > to /YOU/ (too much).
> > > >
> > > > Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
> > > > Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
> > >
> > > Funny... the kid's a riot. The biggest laugh I got last night was when
> > > I came onto the stage and introduced the band to the audience, ending
> > > with: "...and I'm Hank Sinatra, Frank's bastard son."
> >
> > In some sense, rikky has his place, just like pandora,
> > but he thinks that he has the only formula, and is lippy
> > like pandora. I don't like either of your formulas for poetry, but
> > rikky pounds his chest like some Goliath, another value-added-savior
> > to poetry, Oh Boy! ...but I say talentless pissant.
>
> I still say there's room for all of us on the stage.
Or to not be on any stage other than Usenet.
> Outlive a few, I'm afraid. But it ain't over yet, and things can change.
> Personally, I hope you hang on, if for nothing else, to deny the Tom haters
> the collective sigh of relief, if you were to vanish.
The secretly love me. Some of them don't even know it.
>
> > > > This "Two Things", I say is total horseshit.
> > >
> > > I'd wager Tom's 30 foot boat that if that poem had my name on it, it
> > > would get the criticism it really deserves. Apparently, most chose to
> > > ignore it and hope it would go away. A look at this thread on Google
> > > shows that Houseman posted it once in September, and only Tom
> > > responded. He posted it again this month... at least a few of his
> > > groupies showed up.
> >
> > When he begged.
>
> I missed the begging... is it in this, the "Two Little Things" thread?
Maybe it was another one.
> That should get this thread going. I happily await the hordes to descend,
> and defend Dale's "poem".
No one can defend this very far.
"blue trees" and "blah of roses" are not striking enough,
and it simply doesn't make any sense, or strike any feeling.
These statements have little to do with my feelings.
I could review Hammes, Eurydice #2 and find MANY nice things to say
about its crafting, word selection, imagery, etc.. but not this.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"To judge from the notions expounded by theologians,
one must conclude that God created most men
simply with a view to crowding hell." -Marquis de Sade
J Rinier
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>> Craft is a simple concept,
>
>And so is humanity.
No, it isn't.
>
>
>> Dicklery. It refers to the process that
>> culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
>> poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
>> it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
>
>True in general, but didn't you just hear it?
>People steal his performance art and sell it for $5.
Heh.
Yeah, and people go to flea markets and buy 10-penny lamp fixtures as
well, a fact that doesn't exactly /illuminate/ the current situation.
Worthless shit is worthless shit, even if someone is stupid enough to
pay for it.
>
>None of your *well oiled* poetry would make a nickle.
*pffffffft*
For a fan of DT, you don't listen very well.
I get all I need from poetry when I'm down in the dungeon, elbows-deep
in the language. And when I bring it out, I get more than I need from
poetry in the form of free espresso, sandwiches, and intelligent
conversation.
>
>The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
>to /YOU/ (too much).
Of course he would.
And I'd encourage a flea-market trader depriving hopeful fools of
their money to quit selling broken junk-- much the same way.
>
>Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
>Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
Spare me the hyperbole.
You know as well as I do that Rik is a competent writer.
You know as well as I do that Rik's poetry would be
well-enough-received wherever intelligent fans of poetry are found.
And especially in America, where the women (and men, if one is so
inclined) /luuuuuve/ an accent.
>
>> And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
>
>He /IS/ making poetry /work/.
Same way the flea-market peddler is making /his/ useless junk 'work'--
by taking advantage of the sad fools too unwise to leave him baking
under his tent in the parking lot with all of his useless shit as his
only companion.
<snip>
J Rinier
## 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 ##
Malted Bevis
"J Rinier" <gotgkSP...@hotmail.com> wrote in message news:953cadf22a9de5ff...@news.teranews.com...
> On Wed, 18 Feb 2004 03:02:42 -0800, "Malted Bevis"
> <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
> >
> >> Craft is a simple concept,
> >
> >And so is humanity.
>
> No, it isn't.
>
> >
> >
> >> Dicklery. It refers to the process that
> >> culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
> >> poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
> >> it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
> >
> >True in general, but didn't you just hear it?
> >People steal his performance art and sell it for $5.
>
> Heh.
>
> Yeah, and people go to flea markets and buy 10-penny lamp fixtures as
> well, a fact that doesn't exactly /illuminate/ the current situation.
>
> Worthless shit is worthless shit, even if someone is stupid enough to
> pay for it.
>
> >
> >None of your *well oiled* poetry would make a nickle.
>
> *pffffffft*
>
> For a fan of DT, you don't listen very well.
I think I make a valid point.
Will could not use a Rik Roots poem at his venue very well.
Even DT would not work.
> I get all I need from poetry when I'm down in the dungeon, elbows-deep
> in the language. And when I bring it out, I get more than I need from
> poetry in the form of free espresso, sandwiches, and intelligent
> conversation.
So you are happy, be happy.
Will's crowd wouldn't fit with the expressos.
Your crowd wouldn't fit at his neo-beat slam-jam.
I wouldn't fit at either.
Somehow, I can see a place in the world for all of you.
> >The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
> >to /YOU/ (too much).
>
> Of course he would.
>
> And I'd encourage a flea-market trader depriving hopeful fools of
> their money to quit selling broken junk-- much the same way.
This is the poetic "value-added-savior" coming out.
> >
> >Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
> >Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
>
> Spare me the hyperbole.
>
> You know as well as I do that Rik is a competent writer.
Gee, I swear to you I can't stand to read what he calls a poem.
Why would I lie????
I admit to liking large numbers of *whole poems* of Hammes,
and have always admitted to liking pieces of Dale. One of my
favorite poems of all time is Sangria (see below),
and I constantly say this, and it is by Joy, whom
I think is the twittiest piece of work around, the way she gave
'wings' a hard time for the book thing.
Why in the fuck would I lie about Rik??????
Here is Joy's poem:
Casa de las sangrientas
Waiters sambaed through the restaurant
discreetly pouring lemon water into iced glasses.
The smell of fresh cilantro was distracting.
I remember whole peaches,
subtle as baby cheeks in a red dish,
and licentious napkins folded into hats.
I stared at the woven tablecloth,
wondered how they got the salsa stains out.
You complained I was not listening
and cut my hand off with your butter knife.
I could not answer,
mesmerized by the contrast
of the fluid red arc on the white linen.
The carnal house band struck up a lush rumba
but, as usual, we did not dance.
Lovely!!!! ..but joy is a twit.
Trust me, I have yet to see anything worthwhile in Rik,
but I am NOT into daddy-suck poetry at all.
It's kinda like, I don't like country music.
( and please don't tell me your favorite country stars ).
> You know as well as I do that Rik's poetry would be
> well-enough-received wherever intelligent fans of poetry are found.
Perhaps, but my taste has no need to follow.
The point that I made is, Dockery has a bigger following,
and perhaps they aren't all as bright as someone who might
be willing to slog through Rik, Dockery tolerates Rik, whereas
Rik can't leave Dockery alone.
Will has heard it, and has repeatedly stated that he doesn't care.
Now either the /smart/ idiots accept it, or they harass him forever.
Most of the /smart/ idiots turn out to be value-added-saviors,
so the poetry group is a bloody cabbage battle all the time.
>
> And especially in America, where the women (and men, if one is so
> inclined) /luuuuuve/ an accent.
heh.
>
> >
> >> And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
> >
> >He /IS/ making poetry /work/.
>
> Same way the flea-market peddler is making /his/ useless junk 'work'--
> by taking advantage of the sad fools too unwise to leave him baking
> under his tent in the parking lot with all of his useless shit as his
> only companion.
If poetry that you and I liked marched in behind Dockery
they would laugh us out the door, and Dockery would still be
jammin.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Don't be so humble - you are not that great."
-- Golda Meir
Will Dockery
> >
> > "You ain't missing anything, same Hammes belly slop."
>
> He needs me for little things like:
> - the spelling of major poetic forms
> - basic boat physics (new this week)
> - and to remind him to read his AD paper
>
> I'm happy to help.
>
>
>
> > Speaking of earwax, Mikey Cook's been pretty
> > > silent the last day or so... no new picture galleries that I've
noticed.
> > > Perhaps he recieved a "Cease & Desist" in the snail mail..?
>
> It is up to him what he does.
>
> He knows what I'm doing.
>
> I only have these questions for him
> right now:
> - What is your address?
> - Will you disobey a court order?
>
> Maybe I'll have more after meeting with the lawyer.
> ..obviously how judgement proof he is has a big bearing.
I'm very interested in this case for personal reasons. I had considered what
he does to fall under "fair use", and in my case it probably is, since our
approaches to poetry are much different.
You've repeatedly stated here that poetry to you is a hobby, that you're not
a "public figure", while I, "delusional" or not, consider myself an
"entertainer" [duck, here come the tomatoes!], particularly in
Shadowville... and in fact get a kick out of his "parodies"...
The photo manipulations, as far as I can tell, can't hurt me in real life,
and in fact, in my way of thinking, any publicity is good publicity. It's
easy to understand that what he does can and is hurtful to you in both your
personal *and* professional life--- I'd wager you just may have a strong
case.
Will
http://music.lulu.com/content/29085
Will Dockery
> Will could not use a Rik Roots poem at his venue very well.
>
> Even DT would not work.
>
> > I get all I need from poetry when I'm down in the dungeon, elbows-deep
> > in the language. And when I bring it out, I get more than I need from
> > poetry in the form of free espresso, sandwiches, and intelligent
> > conversation.
>
> So you are happy, be happy.
>
> Will's crowd wouldn't fit with the expressos.
>
> Your crowd wouldn't fit at his neo-beat slam-jam.
>
> I wouldn't fit at either.
>
> Somehow, I can see a place in the world for all of you.
>
> > >The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
> > >to /YOU/ (too much).
> >
> > Of course he would.
>
> The point that I made is, Dockery has a bigger following,
> and perhaps they aren't all as bright as someone who might
> be willing to slog through Rik, Dockery tolerates Rik, whereas
> Rik can't leave Dockery alone.
>
> Will has heard it, and has repeatedly stated that he doesn't care.
>
> Now either the /smart/ idiots accept it, or they harass him forever.
>
> Most of the /smart/ idiots turn out to be value-added-saviors,
> so the poetry group is a bloody cabbage battle all the time.
>
> > And especially in America, where the women (and men, if one is so
> > inclined) /luuuuuve/ an accent.
>
> > >> And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
> > >
> > >He /IS/ making poetry /work/.
>
> If poetry that you and I liked marched in behind Dockery
> they would laugh us out the door, and Dockery would still be
> jammin.
Simple plan "B": If all else fails, give 'em a Grateful Dead jam. "Ripple"
is the kind of "poetry" my people dig:
Ripple.
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?
It’s a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they’re better left unsung.
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.
There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
But if you fall you fall alone,
If you should stand then who’s to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.
-Robert Hunter.
Echoes of Eternity:
Enlightenment in Buddhist poetry and the lyrics of Robert Hunter
Why do we suffer and what is the end of suffering? What is
enlightenment and what is the path to enlightenment? In asking these
questions, we begin the search for the deepest truths of existence. The
Buddhist poets of India, China, and Japan asked these same questions.
Reading their words we find not just beautiful poetry, but an expression
of realization which can help us to realize ourselves.
In a similar way, the lyrics of Robert Hunter, reaching our ears
through the music of the Grateful Dead, can aid us in our quest for truth.
Hunter is not a Buddhist and does not use terminology specific to Buddhism
in his lyrics. Yet there are many close parallels between his words and
the words of the Buddhist poets. The questions of the poet-monks are
Hunter's questions, and they are our questions too. Times and places
change, but the questions remain.
When we ask these questions and begin searching for true
happiness, we must first understand our current situation. In "Aim at the
Heart," Robert Hunter writes of the ultimate unsatisfactoriness of the
world:
Everything you cherish
Throws you over in the end
Thorns will grab your ankles
From the gardens that you tend
(Hunter, p.3)
Every meeting ends in a parting, and even the most
perfectly-tended life has its thorny side. Yet the path to happiness is
not to do nothing or just give up, because you're "Damned if you do/double
damned if you don't try" (Ibid). In Hunter's "The Wheel" we see a similar
dilemma:
The wheel is turning
and you can't slow down
You can't let go
and you can't hold on
You can't go back
and you can't stand still
If the thunder don't get you
then the lightning will
(Hunter, p.244)
Hunter introduces the idea of a huge, ever-turning wheel. We are
trapped by this wheel, unable to stop its motion or to escape its
tremendous power. Whichever path we choose, the wheel overpowers us in the
end. It would seem that there is no satisfactory solution to this dilemma.
This wheel could be likened to the Buddhist concept of the "wheel
of samsara." Constantly we suffer, and not realizing this, we act in ways
that cause further suffering for ourselves and others. This leads to
rebirth and the cycle continues; the wheel continues to turn. When one
attempts to break the cycle, a dilemma arises: to try and stop the wheel
by force is futile and results in further suffering. Yet to take no action
changes nothing, and the wheel turns as before. How, then, does one end
suffering?
The Buddhist poets do not answer that question directly. But
perhaps the answer lies hidden in the words of these sages, waiting for us
to discover it. Buddhist poetry could be seen as upaya, or skillful means,
the purpose of which is to point the way to the end of suffering. Poetry
is often viewed as a form of entertainment or of self-expression, but the
Buddhist verse here communicates an experience of realization which is
beyond the self, beyond the personal. This is poetry with a purpose, and
that purpose is to help us to wake up. Reflecting on the realization of
others, we begin to experience our own luminous nature. We might then come
to a new understanding of suffering and of existence itself, just as these
poets did.
The lyrics of Robert Hunter, while not explicitly Buddhist,
connect closely with many Buddhist ideas. Hunter's poetic imagery is
similar in many ways to that of Buddhist poets. And the questions Hunter
asks, as well as the issues he explores, are often similar as well. Like
the poetry of the Buddhists, Hunter's work could be seen as a skillful
means; transmitted to a large audience through the music of the Grateful
Dead, Hunter's verse helps us find and follow the path to truth.
What does this path look like and where might we find it? Hunter
(p. 185) writes of an ambiguous and difficult path which one must walk
alone.
And there's a road
no simple highway
between the dawn
and the dark of night
If you go
no one may follow
That path is for
your steps alone
This is "no simple highway" - it is not a fast, easy, or
well-marked path. Though a human might follow this path, to walk "between
the dawn/and the dark of night" is to tread a path which leads beyond the
usual human knowledge and understanding. And though Hunter writes of a
single road, he also makes it clear that we each have our own path. No one
can follow the path of another.
In "Old Man Advancing," the Zen Buddhist poet Muso Soseki points
at first to a path beyond the known, even beyond the possible, a path
"Beyond the point where the rivers/and the mountains vanish" (p. 73). If
such a path could even be said to exist, how could it ever be found? Like
Hunter's words about the path, Soseki's verse carries us beyond the
ordinary. To understand these words, we must follow them as they lead us
away from the familiar world and into a new one. Yet even though this path
seems so foreign, Soseki proceeds to explain that the fruit of this path
is not in another place or time:
Originally
the treasure lies
just under one's feet
(Ibid)
First Soseki leads us away from the world we know, but in the end
we circle back to the same ground on which we originally stood. Something
is different upon our return, though, because now we see that nothing was
lacking to begin with. The treasure we sought was here all along.
In the writings of Soseki and another Zen Buddhist poet and monk,
Dogen, water imagery is woven into descriptions of the path to realization
and the experience of enlightenment. In "Gem Creek," Soseki writes of an
mysterious fountain, its water, and the riches contained within:
The mysterious valley fountain
is originally bright and clear
it was not made by humans
The banks on both sides
and the stream between them
all shine with one light
Without ruffling the surface
look carefully
into the depths
You'll see the uncountable
legendary jewels
of the Kunlun Mountains
(Soseki, p.78)
At first it might seem that because it is so otherworldly and not
created by humans, this fountain is beyond human perception. But this is
not the case, because Soseki writes that one might not only view this
fountain and its water, but also find "uncountable legendary jewels" in
its depths.
Hunter, too, writes of a fountain "that was not made/by the hands
of men" (Hunter, p. 185). In the same lyric, he writes of some sort of
magical water:
Ripple in still water
when there is no pebble tossed
nor wind to blow
As with Soseki's fountain and water, in Hunter's imagery there is
an intriguing balance of the real and the unreal. Water is a common
substance and we might assume we understand it completely, but these words
might lead us to question our understanding.
Dogen writes of the powerful and seemingly impossible characteristics of
water:
Water is neither strong nor weak, neither wet nor dry, neither
deluded nor enlightened...Do not doubt that these are the characteristics
water manifests. You should reflect on the moment when you see the water
of the ten directions as the water of the ten directions. (Tanahashi, p.
101)
Dogen implies that to view water in the usual way is to see
something other than what is actually present. To fully encounter Dogen's
water, we must move beyond our normal perceptions and definitions. How is
it possible that water is not wet and not dry? How is it possible, as
Hunter writes, to "wade in the water/and never get wet" (p. 61)?
In order to resolve these questions, we must tread Soseki's path
which leads beyond the rivers and mountains. Enlightenment is within each
of us, yet it is beyond all that we know and are. At the point where we
understand this fully, the path, the self, and water interpenetrate. Dogen
writes:
Walking beyond and walking within are both done on water. All
mountains walk with their toes on all waters and splash there. (Tanahashi,
p. 101)
Bringing the path and the water together like this, we might see
the path as a stream. In the Dhammapada, a collection of verses attributed
to the Buddha, we find this verse:
The person who reaches the sacred, the inexpressible,
Who has permeated his mind with it,
Who is in control of his senses,
Is one bound upstream.
(Maitreya, p. 72)
The stream here could be viewed as the path to realization, and
one who heeds the Buddha's advice is on that path. The Buddhist traveler
walks upstream against the flow of desires and attachments, and
eventually, through diligent effort, attains realization.
What is it that happens when we fully comprehend the words of the
Buddha and the Buddhist poets? What occurs when we reach the end of the
path and realize truth? At the end of the path, there is nothing left to
achieve, nothing left to seek. It is at this point that realization
occurs. In "End of the Road," Hunter writes:
The radio was playing music like I never heard,
I didn't have a thing to say, no, not another word
The wheels of the sky-blue car flew down the golden track
The rearview mirror showed nothing that would ever call me back
This is the end of the road
No further passion to unload
Nothing left to do except explode
Here at the end of the road
(Hunter, p.73)
When one is free from passion and free from attachment to all the
objects and sensations of this world, the great death of enlightenment
occurs. Dogen, in his "Death Poem" (Tanahashi, p. 219), relates his own
experience of an explosion at the end of the road:
Fifty-four years lighting up the sky.
A quivering leap smashes a billion worlds.
Ha!
Entire body looks for nothing.
Living, I plunge into Yellow Springs.
The end is reached and nothing is left but to die into self-realization.
Whether this death is literal or metaphorical, the realization is
tremendously powerful and nothing is as it was before. The experience of
realization can be a shattering of the world:
At the clack of a stone on a bamboo
Hsiang-Yen shattered
the uncountable worlds
(Soseki 25)
The "shattering" metaphor can be extended: the world is compared
to a mirror, and when one attains realization, the mirror is shattered.
Soseki writes in "Beyond Light":
The clear mirror
and its stand
have been broken
There is no dust
in the eyes
of the blind donkey
Dark
dark everywhere
the appearance of subtle Zen
(Soseki 138)
The mirror of conventional breaks, delusion has falls away, and
the all-pervading darkness of realization is all that remains. Hunter, in
his lyric to the song "Dark Star", uses also uses the mirror metaphor
along with the descent of darkness to describe a shattering of reality.
Dark star crashes
pouring its light
into ashes
Reason tatters
the forces tear loose
from the axis
Searchlight casting
for faults in the
clouds of delusion
Shall we go,
you and I
While we can?
Through
the transitive nightfall
of diamonds
Mirror shatters
in formless reflections
of matter
(Hunter, p. 54)
First a star, a powerful source of light and energy, collapses.
Following this, reason is torn apart, and the ever-spinning wheel of
mundane existence is thrown into a new rotation, or perhaps it is
destroyed entirely. As in "Beyond Light", a deep darkness descends as
reality dissolves. Finally, the mirror through which we view our world is
shattered, leaving only the darkness or complete extinction which is
enlightenment.
While these lines can be read as poetry, their true power only
becomes evident when they are heard in their proper context as lyrics set
to music. When the Grateful Dead performed "Dark Star," the invitation
above ("Shall we go, you and I, While we can?") became an invitation from
the band to the audience. The band challenged their audience to journey
with them to a place where "reason tatters" and the "faults in the clouds
of delusion" are revealed. In this way, these lyrics could be seen as a
skillful means; rather than just entertaining those who hear them, they
bring their audience to a new realization of truth.
Dogen (Tanahashi, p. 218) writes of an instantaneous and profound
realization and urges us to experience it as well:
An explosive shout cracks the great empty sky.
Immediately clear self-understanding.
Swallow up buddhas and ancestors of the past.
Without following others, realize complete penetration
There is a shattering explosion, similar to Hsiang-yen's
"shattering" of "the uncountable worlds" (Soseki 25). The shout seems to
be that of a person experiencing realization: "Ah! I understand!" This
experience actualizes a universal understanding, but it is personal in
nature. One cannot "realize complete penetration" by emulating the actions
of others. As Hunter (p. 185) writes, "That path is for/your steps alone".
The implication is, though, that if one faithfully follows one's own path,
one can reach the end of that path, transform the universe, and at last
see clearly.
The disappearance of light common to both "Dark Star" and "Beyond
Light" is an oft-used metaphor for the experience of realization.
Sometimes it is the literal extinguishing of a lamp or candle which leads
to Nirvana. The Theravadin Buddhist nun Patcara writes simply and clearly
of this experience:
Then I took a lamp
and went into my cell,
checked the bed,
and sat down on it.
I took a needle
and pushed the wick down.
When the lamp went out
my mind was freed.
(Murcott)
The power of this verse, in contrast to much of the poetry cited
here, is not in its drama; it is the penetrating simplicity and intimacy
of the poem that is striking. There is a similar intimacy and directness
in this poem by the Chinese Ch'an poet Han-shan Te-ch'ing:
After late spring rain the falling petals swirl
weightlessly celestial scent covers my patched robe
a simple vacant mind has no place to go
resting on the peak I watch the clouds return
(Pine and O'Connor, p. 127)
Here Te-ch'ing expresses the contentment and true freedom of one
who has reached the end of the path. After finishing this great journey,
where is there to go and what is there to do?
The ground of realization is an infinite space in which all things
are effortlessly complete. Dogen writes:
Realization, neither general nor particular,
is effort without desire.
Clear water all the way to the bottom;
a fish swims like a fish.
Vast sky transparent throughout;
a bird flies like a bird.
(Tanahashi, p.219)
How could one improve on this, and who would there be to do it? A
fish swims through clear water, manifesting its realization without
effort. A fish need not make a special effort to swim like a fish. In the
same way, a human lives in this world, manifesting his or her realization
without effort. Realizing the truth, no effort is necessary. The clear
water of the fish or the vast transparent sky of the bird is not different
from the immense field of mind.
Te-ch'ing writes of the limitless expanse of realization:
Deep among ten thousand peaks I sit alone cross-legged
a solitary thought fills my empty mind
my body is the moon that lights the winter sky
in rivers and in lakes are only its reflections
(Pine and O'Connor, p. 129)
Upon experiencing enlightenment, mind and body are the entire
universe, with no separation. In "Eyes of the World", Hunter (p. 75) tells
us that mind and body are much bigger than we think:
Wake up to find out
that you are the eyes of the world
but the heart has its beaches
its homeland and thoughts
of its own
Wake now, discover that
you are the song that
the morning brings
but the heart has its seasons
it evenings
and songs of its own
The experience of enlightenment is one of awakening to the
infinite space of the eternal. Dogen, Te-ch'ing, and Hunter invite us to
discover that each of us is that vast space. These verses haunt,
tantalize, and penetrate us with the truth. The truth is not what we think
it is, and we are not what we think we are.
Upon awakening, we might be surprised to discover that the world
is just a dream, and each of us is the world's dreamer. Te-ch'ing (Pine
and O'Connor, p. 123) writes:
A hard cold rain a forest of wind
late at night the lotus drips
who knows the dream that entrances the world
is simply the luminous prajna mind
We are so entranced by our own dream that we forget we're
dreaming. Not realizing the creative power of our own mind, we convince
ourselves that all this is real. In "Box of Rain" (p. 26), Hunter echoes
Te-ch'ing, writing of the world's captivating variety and of its
dream-like existence:
Look out of any window
any morning, any evening, any day
Maybe the sun is shining
birds are winging or
rain is falling from a heavy sky-
What do you want me to do,
to do for you to see you through?
This is all a dream we dreamed
one afternoon long ago
The enlightenment experience is an awakening from the dream of
samsara into the expansive truth of mind. Awakening, we are free.
However, Dogen tells us that even this understanding is not
complete. In conceiving of the path as outside of ourselves and searching
for realization in some other place and time, we miss the very jewel we
seek. Dogen writes:
When you first seek dharma, you imagine you are far away from its
environs. But dharma is already correctly transmitted; you are immediately
your original self.
(Tanahashi, p. 70)
Dreaming of enlightenment, we never reach it. Waking up, we
discover it is here already. This is just what Soseki explained in "Old
Man Advancing": the path is a dream of ours; the truth was never missing.
Waking up, we realize the self and the world both at once, both as one.
Buddhist poetry exists not just to provide enjoyment. There is a
deeper purpose in these words, and that is to point the reader towards
enlightenment. In describing the path to and the experience of
enlightenment, Patacara, Soseki, Dogen, Te-ch'ing, and other Buddhist
poets help others experience their own self-realization. Poetry about the
experience of realization can be what Huston Smith calls a "spiritual
technology": the poem becomes a vehicle used by the poet to transmit his
or her realization to the reader.
The Buddhist poets urge us to conceive of the inconceivable and to
do the impossible. Through the skillful means of poetic verse, they
challenge us to go beyond what we believe to be true and beyond what we
think we are. In Robert Hunter's lyrics, we see these impossible
challenges and questions resurfacing hundreds of years later and thousands
of miles distant, by way of a surprising and unlikely vehicle: the songs
of the Grateful Dead.
Dodd, David.
The Annotated Grateful Dead Lyrics: a Web Site.
Available from http://arts.ucsc.edu/GDead/AGDL/
Will Dockery
> _________________
>
>
>
> 1.
>
> Night, a letter, only
Seems like a stumbling, stuttering, and most of all, boring opening "line",
incomplete, at that.
> its sans serif peak encased
> in pale metallic threads
Good acid, Dale?
> wandered away
The Giant Letter wandered away...
> upon a boat’s reflection
> full of anxious waiters
Don't forget to tip... but so many... *grin*
> and haloed suitcases stacked
Picture yourself on a boat on a river, with plasticine porters, and looking
glass skies...
> under the blue trees
> which are literary
Lonesome academic trees. I like the "blue trees" image, if only you'd done
something with it.
> like varnished ropes.
Give 'em enough rope...
> 2.
>
> Day, a bloodstain
> on the schoolgirl’s pigtail
This is perversely meaningless enough that I kind of like it.
> maybe it’s a violin
Maybe it's a fine bass fiddle.
> embedded in a hand
Ouch.
> an ornamental nova
> or not
Have your nova and eat it too?
> a van full of roses
A floral delivery van?
> bulging in a grocery bag
> or not
Probably not--- that would be one *Hell* of a big grocery bag... paper or
plastic?
Will
Here's how it's done, old son:
Will Dockery
> [snip for brevity]
>
> >Really, reminds me of a parody, or imitation, of Will Dockery by someone
who
> >doesn't understand what I'm doing
>
> That might be a "self-parody".
Or, life being the cosmic [and mostly unfunny] joke that it is, a self
portrait:
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
http://www.amber-kaye.com/forum/viewthread.php?action=attachment&tid=434&pid=643
Will Dockery
"Two Little Things":
>From: Dale Houstman (dm...@citilink.com)
>Date: 2003-04-27 21:11:11 PST
>>
>Well I agree with her. Your poetry is just rather bad prose >broken
up
>into random lines, and the manner in which you choose to >express
your
>"themes" (which are pretty weak in themselves) has a really >wobbly
>character which fails to carry the reader along or illuminate >its
>points, whatever they might be.
>dmh
Dale, "Two Little Things" is "bad prose broken up into random
lines"... actually, strike the prose part. It's just bad.
The poem esp. the opening, as I wrote earlier, has a really "wobbly
character" that truly "fails to carry the reader along" *or*
"illuminate its points"... whatever that may be.
Really:
"haloed suitcases stacked
under the blue trees"
"the blue trees
which are literary"
"maybe it?s a violin
embedded in a hand"
"a van full of roses
bulging in a grocery bag"
You know what I mean. It's a broke down engine, ain't got no driving
wheel, as Blind Willie McTell, a great American poet, once sang.
Will
Will Dockery
news:20040218185143...@mb-m12.aol.com...
> >"Art Star" Mp3:
http://www.yeahyeahyeahs.com/art_star.mp3
>
> WOW.
>
> i just became a fan of them.
>
> - k i t z -
> i will take you to the oracle, but first i must aporogize.
> http://spinning_plates.tripod.com
My immediate reaction, as well.
Will
Marg Petersen
"Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote in message
>
> > My God, the garbage you write, Skipper. Talk about baby shit, this is
the
> > runny gunk of a fat old man.
>
>
> He hardly comes through a killfile.
>
Marg
Malted Bevis
> Probably not--- that would be one *Hell* of a big grocery bag... paper or
> plastic?
But many of the roses were used in the 9/11 funerals.
or not
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"So many women, so few hatboxes."
-- Dale Houstman
Malted Bevis
"Marg Petersen" <pan...@peak.org> wrote in message news:c10ufq$9nh$1...@news.oregonstate.edu...
>
> "Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote in message
> news:40339b88$1...@127.0.0.1...
> >
> > > My God, the garbage you write, Skipper. Talk about baby shit, this is
> the
> > > runny gunk of a fat old man.
> >
> >
> > He hardly comes through a killfile.
> >
> Now THIS is funny; Tommy killfiling someone. Whooeeeeee!!!
My name is Tom, pandora.
Bunches and bunches.
The one I am most proud of is Hammes.
But basically anyone who won't stick to poetry and decides
that they are an armchair anal-yst, or some other form
of value-added-savior.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."
--Philip K. Dick
Will Dockery
>
> > Probably not--- that would be one *Hell* of a big grocery bag... paper
or
> > plastic?
>
> But many of the roses were used in the 9/11 funerals.
>
> or not
Aha! A key... this is perhaps some 911 "tribute" poem... very clever
commercial move from Houseman... or not.
Will
Malted Bevis
> > Maybe I'll have more after meeting with the lawyer.
> > ..obviously how judgement proof he is has a big bearing.
>
> I'm very interested in this case for personal reasons. I had considered what
> he does to fall under "fair use", and in my case it probably is, since our
> approaches to poetry are much different.
Well if you read the many discussions of "fair use" you will not
conclude that any artist can simply use anything to create a parody.
Artists need to own their materials, or (at least) obscure them
so that the original copyright holder doesn't come after them.
He is using my image, as my image, and explicitly so.
He is intent on ridiculing my face exactly, and so there it is.
Obviously not his to use in artwork that is just offensive,
and vulgar, and whose only purpose is to harass me.
If you also note that concocting lies about a person (for example that
I am gay, or calling me a thief) is slander.
It happens a lot around here, and /around here/ is more like discussion.
(..as per Jonathan, though I think he goes too far)
But Michael took it out of /discussion/ and put it on a public billboard
that he (allegedly) seeded search engines, and advertised in other ways.
Not the same as discussion. It is more of a "presentation".
I have never messed with Michael (or anyone) on a website like
he is doing.
>
> You've repeatedly stated here that poetry to you is a hobby, that you're not
> a "public figure", while I, "delusional" or not, consider myself an
> "entertainer" [duck, here come the tomatoes!], particularly in
> Shadowville... and in fact get a kick out of his "parodies"...
Perhaps you are a public figure, perhaps not. I am definitely not,
and don't wish public noteriety at the hands of Michael Cook,
in any case.
>
> The photo manipulations, as far as I can tell, can't hurt me in real life,
> and in fact, in my way of thinking, any publicity is good publicity. It's
> easy to understand that what he does can and is hurtful to you in both your
> personal *and* professional life--- I'd wager you just may have a strong
> case.
Errrr.. there isn't any doubt that what he is doing is minimally criminal.
ISP agreements are usually even more restrictive, and he has found out
about that. He threatens once a day now, so perhaps he is working full time
on finding an off shore ISP, like he threatened.
The longer it goes, the deeper he digs himself,
and he isn't likely to get that much credit for this
except from jr and hammes and a very few others.
Whoever says they enjoy it, and knows the true story,
is simply announcing that they are totally "two faced"
WRT copyrights. (since jr, and all the mikey-club, if there
is such a thing, has expressed total anality WRT copyrights,
and here is Michael posting my private email, and Usenet
postings on a website with explicit DIS-permission.)
Lordy...
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake."
Jake McAllister
On 2004-02-18 Str...@Dessert.Filling (Tom Bishop) said:
> It's kinda like, I don't like country music.
> ( and please don't tell me your favorite country stars ).
Aw, c'mon, Tom, who could resist something like this?
I DIDN'T JUMP THE FENCE
( by Tommy Cogbill. Copyright 1975 )
(As recorded by Red Sovine on Starday Records)
Mister angry neighbor
yes, I know just how you feel
'cause I've been pickin' your fruit.
But don't tell me I steal.
I haven't been in your yard;
my tracks ain't on your ground.
Your tree hangs over my fence
the nights you're not around.
(chorus)
I didn't jump the fence.
The fruit was offered free.
I couldn't reach your apples
if you'd just trim the tree.
Well, sure, I've held your darlin'.
But mister, where's your sense?
She's the one got lonely.
I didn't jump the fence.
Now friend, y'see that little trail
that runs between our homes?
These ain't the shoes that wore it there
the nights that you were gone.
So don't show me your anger
or shout I stole a kiss,
when she did all the walkin'.
I didn't jump the fence.
(repeat chorus)
- Jake
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:4033e...@news1.knology.net...
I moved from PA to Marin Co. CA in '73
because I had noticed the GD had moved from Palo Alto
to Marin, and I figured that if they moved all the way across,
to the other side of SF, there must be a reason.
The logic was inpeccable.
Marin County is, IMO, one of the the garden spots of the planet.
(although the Palo Alto Hills aren't shabby either)
I've lived all over Marin.
I play a lot of the early Dead on guitar, and think the
Hunter / Garcia team turned out some fine tunes.
Ripple of course.
I had a gf one time that had actually sucked Jerry's stump.
--
Tom Bishop
"a rooster
an empty room
poverty"
http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
Will Dockery
Well, damn!
Will Dockery
The next step people like Cook take, from my personal experience, is to
actually try to "re-route" information, money and communication to
themselves. In some ways, to actually "become" you.
I brought the law enforcement part of the post office in when friends and
family, and untold numbers of strangers began getting postcards from Truman
Bentley advertising "Will Dockery" videos, *singed* by "Will Dockery" and
with "Will Dockery Films" over *his* P.O.Box in the return address... in
other words, people trying to contact me would contact Truman. The
postmaster never gave me the details [this was back in late 1999], but
Truman sure did vanish from the scene, or became much more carfeful.
This probably gives fuckwits like Cook more ideas, but what the Hell, take
'em down as they come.
Will
"Mirror Twins" Mp3, free preview:
http://music.lulu.com/content/29085
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:403414c9$1...@news1.knology.net...
THAT'S IT!!!!!
"two little things".... now I get it.
or not.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"I believe these are the days of lasers in the jungle!"
- Paul Simon
Karla
>
>
>On 2004-02-18 Str...@Dessert.Filling (Tom Bishop) said:
>
> > It's kinda like, I don't like country music.
> > ( and please don't tell me your favorite country stars ).
>
>Aw, c'mon, Tom, who could resist something like this?
Agreed. Two for the price of one. heh
My Baby Thinks He's A Train
---Leroy Preston
It's three a.m. in the morning,
The train whistle is blowin'.
It sounds like some lonesome song got in my soul,
In my soul.
My baby spent the bank and he won't be back no more.
My baby thinks he's a train.
He makes his whistle stop, then he's gone again.
Sometimes it's hard on a poor girl's brain,
A poor girl's brain.
I'm tellin' you, boys, my baby thinks he's a train.
Locomotion's the way he moves.
He drags me 'round just like an old caboose
I'm tellin' you, girls, that man's insane.
My baby thinks he's a train.
Choo, choo rages on, train sound.
It's the noise that you hear when my baby hits town.
With his long hair flyin', man, he's hard to take.
What you s'posed to do when your baby thinks he's a train?
He eats money like a train eats coal.
He burns it up and leaves you in the smoke.
If you wanna catch a ride, you wait 'til he unwinds.
He's just like a train, he always gives some tramp a ride.
Locomotion's the way he moves.
He drags me 'round just like an old caboose
I'm tellin' you, girls, that man's insane.
My baby thinks he's a train.
===================================
Leaving Louisiana In The Broad Daylight
-- Emmylou Harris
Mary took to running with a travelin' man
Left her momma crying with her head in her hands
Such a sad case, so broken hearted
She say momma, I got to go, I gotta get outta here
I gotta get out of town; I'm tired of hanging around
I gotta roll on between the ditches
It's just an ordinary story 'bout the way things go
Round and around nobody knows, but the highway
Goes on forever, that 'ol highway rolls on forever
Lord she never would've done it if she hadn't got drunk
If she hadn't started running with a travelin man
If she hadn't started taking those crazy changes
She say daughter, let me tell you 'bout the travelin kind
Everywhere he's goin' such a very short time
He'll be long gone before you know it, he'll be long
Gone before you know it
She say never have I known it when it felt so good
Never have I knew it when I knew I could
Never have I done it when it looked so right
Leaving Louisiana in the broad daylight
This is down in the swampland, anything goes
It's alligator bait and the bars don't close
It's the real thing down in Louisiana
Did you ever see a cajun when he really got mad
When he really got trouble like a daughter gone bad
It gets real hot down in Louisiana
The stranger better move it or he's gonna get killed
He's gonna have to get it or a shotgun will
It ain't no time for lengthy speeches
There ain't no time for lengthy speeches
She say never have I know it when it felt so good
Never have I knew it when I knew I could
Never have I done it when it looked so right
Leaving Louisiana in the broad daylight
It's just an ordinary story 'bout the way things go
Round and around nobody knows, but the highway goes on forever
There ain't no way to stop the water
Malted Bevis
"Karla" <kar...@earthlink.net> wrote in message news:c115h...@drn.newsguy.com...
> In article <c113c1$j9s$2...@news.f.de.plusline.net>, Jake McAllister says...
> >
> >
> >On 2004-02-18 Str...@Dessert.Filling (Tom Bishop) said:
> >
> > > It's kinda like, I don't like country music.
> > > ( and please don't tell me your favorite country stars ).
> >
> >Aw, c'mon, Tom, who could resist something like this?
>
> Agreed. Two for the price of one. heh
There are 2 kinds of country music.
1. Twangy.
2. Extra Twangy.
Which do you prefer?
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
What do I win?
- anonymous
Malted Bevis
> > I had a gf one time that had actually sucked Jerry's stump.
>
> Well, damn!
Obviously Jerry's stump is a major "star-fuck".
She was a total /Head/, and would travel all over to catch
them on tour, and stay in hotel rooms with a bunch of horny
drug users.. :-)
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"When I'm famous, I won't forget the little people.
Whoever they are..." -- Dale Houstman
Malted Bevis
> This probably gives fuckwits like Cook more ideas,
Let's keep to poetry and satisfaction of
our narcissistic hedonism.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Don't be so humble - you are not that great."
-- Golda Meir
Will Dockery
>
> > > I had a gf one time that had actually sucked Jerry's stump.
> >
> > Well, damn!
>
> Obviously Jerry's stump is a major "star-fuck".
>
> She was a total /Head/, and would travel all over to catch
> them on tour, and stay in hotel rooms with a bunch of horny
> drug users.. :-)
She sounds like a fun person. Do you know where she is now? Was she around
in your "boatlife" days?
Will
Will Dockery
>
> > This probably gives fuckwits like Cook more ideas,
>
> Let's keep to poetry and satisfaction of
> our narcissistic hedonism.
Good plan.
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:40342faf$1...@news1.knology.net...
Long, long before.
My cock wasn't big enough for her, so no,
we don't stay in touch. :-)
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought
which they avoid." - - Soren Aabye Kierkegaard
Will Dockery
> > > > > I had a gf one time that had actually sucked Jerry's stump.
> > > >
> > > > Well, damn!
> > >
> > > Obviously Jerry's stump is a major "star-fuck".
> > >
> > > She was a total /Head/, and would travel all over to catch
> > > them on tour, and stay in hotel rooms with a bunch of horny
> > > drug users.. :-)
> >
> > She sounds like a fun person. Do you know where she is now? Was she
around
> > in your "boatlife" days?
> > Will
>
> Long, long before.
>
> My cock wasn't big enough for her, so no,
> we don't stay in touch. :-)
Perhaps the coke wasn't big enough...
Will Dockery
Little Things":
>From: Dale Houstman (dm...@citilink.com)
>Date: 2003-04-27 21:11:11 PST
>>
>Well I agree with her. Your poetry is just rather bad prose >broken up
>into random lines, and the manner in which you choose to >express your
>"themes" (which are pretty weak in themselves) has a really >wobbly
>character which fails to carry the reader along or illuminate >its
>points, whatever they might be.
>dmh
Dale, "Two Little Things" is "bad prose broken up into random lines"...
actually, strike the prose part. It's just bad.
The poem esp. the opening, as I wrote earlier has a really "wobbly
character" that truly "fails to carry the reader along" *or* "illuminate its
points"... whatever that may be.
Really:
"haloed suitcases stacked
under the blue trees"
"the blue trees
which are literary"
"maybe it's a violin
Will Dockery
> > _________________
> >
> > 1.
> >
> > Night, a letter, only
>
> Seems like a stumbling, stuttering, and most of all, boring opening "line",
> incomplete, at that.
>
> > its sans serif peak encased
> > in pale metallic threads
>
> Good acid, Dale?
>
> > wandered away
>
> The Giant Letter wandered away...
>
> > full of anxious waiters
>
> Don't forget to tip... but so many... *grin*
>
> > and haloed suitcases stacked
>
> Picture yourself on a boat on a river, with plasticine porters, and looking
> glass skies...
>
> > under the blue trees
> > which are literary
>
> Lonesome academic trees. I like the "blue trees" image, if only you'd done
> something with it.
>
> > like varnished ropes.
>
> Give 'em enough rope...
>
> > 2.
> >
> > Day, a bloodstain
>
> This is perversely meaningless enough that I kind of like it.
>
>
> Maybe it's a fine bass fiddle.
>
> > embedded in a hand
>
> Ouch.
>
> > an ornamental nova
> > or not
>
> Have your nova and eat it too?
>
> > a van full of roses
>
> A floral delivery van?
>
> > bulging in a grocery bag
> > or not
>
> Probably not--- that would be one *Hell* of a big grocery bag... paper or
> plastic?
> Will
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention: it's a shitty poem.
Malted Bevis
"Will Dockery" <irony...@knology.net> wrote in message news:40343...@news1.knology.net...
That was unrelated to her.
Her cock thing was funny in that even a large cock
didn't make her cum (for which she needed more intense
clitoral stimulation), it was just that the image of
being fucked by a large cock was psychologically
important to her.
Oh well.
Left me out. :-)
Next...
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"If you don't like sonnets just think of them as
quatorzains with pecuriar rhyme schemes."
-- just me
Will Dockery
>
> > Jesus said to him, "If you wish to be complete, go and sell your
possessions and
> > give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow
Me."
>
> Sweetie, I've played guitar to people speaking in tongues in Pentecostal
churches.
>
> One time I handed a /tract/ to Carol Doda (the perfect 36 in San Jose, a
Bay
> Area TV personality).
>
> I've "visited the orphans and widows in their affliction".
>
> I've read the whole bible twice, and the new testament at least 7 times.
>
> My considered review, after spending about a decade in Charismatic
> and Pentecostal churches, is that Xtianity (and Judaism, and most of
> all exoteric religions) is the most ridiculous crock of shit
> that exists on this woefully moronic bell-shaped curve planet.
>
> I'm not saying that jesus didn't have good things to say, but most of
> Xtiantity was written by a deluded person that misinterpreted what
> amounts to a garden variety spiritual experience. Saul/Paul had a
"reaction
> formation", and wrote a lot of prosy letters, and here we are.
>
> Spiritual experiences occur all over the planet, in all ages.
>
> It doesn't mean that jesus is anything but a cross poster.
>
> There are far better traditions with better cosmologies.
The stories of Osiris, Balduur, Mithras--- even Hercules! --- follow the
story of Jesus, as told in the NT, in some cases, like Mithras, almost
exactly. But predates Christ by hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. The
ressurection myth is basically a "Winter-into-Spring" thing...
After hundreds of posts about how Jesus Christ Himself isn't even a
Christian, that Christianity came much later, created by Paul, I'm all
Jesused out until at least Easter. Maybe after a few cups of coffee I'll
have the strength to Google up some of the more choice posts... or if any of
my pals at "alt.pagan" are looking, they can jump in with some of it.
Will
Will Dockery
"Joshua P. Hill" <josh442R...@snet.net> wrote
> >> >The Houstman thinks he's a poet. Or not.
> >> >
> >> >"blue trees"
> >> >
> >> >"van filled with flowers"
> >>
> >> Talk about tone deaf -- stick to notes you can hear, Will.
> >
> >So... explain it to me then, Josh.
>
> Will, if these things were all that susceptible to explanation, there
> probably wouldn't be a reason to write a poem. Both phrases evoke
> strong visual images. "Van" and "flower" are, subjectively, almost
> contraries. Both phrases are actual combinations, but verge at the
> same time on surrealism. The nouns, verb, and the imagery they evoke
> have many associations, intellectual and emotional. "filled" and
> "flower" have similar sounds. Etc.
>
> One can analyze or enumerate such things, but the enumeration will
> never be certain, comprehensive, or adequate. It's like trying to
> explain why spaghetti goes well with tomato sauce, while hotdogs go
> well with mustard and sauerkraut. Are there explanations? Sure,
> somewhere in our brains and biochemistry: both tomatoes and hot dogs
> contain glutamate, for example, a unique flavor which, like salt,
> enhances the flavor of other foods. But our understanding of the
> scientific phenomena that underlie these things isn't yet adequate to
> produce a good food combination on the basis of theory alone. Nor can
> a restaurant critic take a meal to a laboratory and, without tasting
> it, determine whether the restaurant deserves two stars or three.
>
> I've known some people who have read many books on prosody, along with
> piles of verse. They're full of information. But they can no more
> write an effective poem than someone who's read a book on tennis can
> play a competent game. Because we don't learn to write or appreciate
> poetry that way. Formal training and study plays a part in it just as
> it does in cooking or tennis, but as in those activities it's just a
> part: one has to cultivate the ear by reading and re-reading poems, by
> imagining and writing them. And the more one does that, the more
> critical one becomes -- not in the cheap sense, but in one's ability
> to appreciate finer things.
Josh
Okay, I've known all that for years. Usually these things don't fly so well
around here. Do you think "Two Little Things" is a good poem, then? A
*great* poem? And, if so, *what* makes it good, or great, as opposed to
other strings of "random" images..?
Will
Art, music, poetry of Will Dockery:
http://music.lulu.com/dockery
Will Dockery
> When you compose a better poem, or even a poem at all, I'll be more than
> willing to listen to your criticisms. Until then, you might as well be a
> cancerous cloud.
dmh
Fact is, old sludge, "Two Little Things" I could cut on my worst day. You
don't have to agree: it's an obvious fact. But, as one of your buddies was
so fond of pointing out to me, this isn't about me, but the piece of banal
crud by Dale Houstman called "Two Little Things".
Will
Elephant Girl On Rankin.
-Will Dockery
Art, music, poetry of Will Dockery:
http://music.lulu.com/dockery
Will Dockery
Take your time. Meanwhile, a few more thoughts on the utterly wretched "Two
Little Things":
>Your poetry is just rather bad prose >broken up
>into random lines, and the manner in which you choose to >express your
>"themes" (which are pretty weak in themselves) has a really >wobbly
>character which fails to carry the reader along or illuminate >its
>points, whatever they might be.
Try harder next time, Houseman... you've lost touch with "the writer's
stuff" and now you're just... stuffed.
Will
Joshua P. Hill
I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad I
did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a superb
poet.
--
Josh
To reply by email, delete "REMOVETHIS" from the address line.
Malted Bevis
> I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
> merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
> you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad I
> did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a superb
> poet.
In your opinion.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"Maybe we're ALL in the wrong place,
but - what the hell - let's stick around
for no good reason." --Dale Houstman
J Rinier
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>"J Rinier" <gotgkSP...@hotmail.com> wrote in message news:953cadf22a9de5ff...@news.teranews.com...
>> On Wed, 18 Feb 2004 03:02:42 -0800, "Malted Bevis"
>> <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>>
>> >
>> >> Craft is a simple concept,
>> >
>> >And so is humanity.
>>
>> No, it isn't.
>>
>> >
>> >
>> >> Dicklery. It refers to the process that
>> >> culminates in a working artifact. Good poetry is a machine. Your
>> >> poetry is missing teeth, cogs, springs, and oil. When you try to run
>> >> it, it spits and grinds and falls apart because it /lacks craft/.
>> >
>> >True in general, but didn't you just hear it?
>> >People steal his performance art and sell it for $5.
>>
>> Heh.
>>
>> Yeah, and people go to flea markets and buy 10-penny lamp fixtures as
>> well, a fact that doesn't exactly /illuminate/ the current situation.
>>
>> Worthless shit is worthless shit, even if someone is stupid enough to
>> pay for it.
>>
>> >
>> >None of your *well oiled* poetry would make a nickle.
>>
>> *pffffffft*
>>
>> For a fan of DT, you don't listen very well.
>
>I think I make a valid point.
>
>Will could not use a Rik Roots poem at his venue very well.
No more than a dog could use a bulldozer to bury bones.
>
>Even DT would not work.
>
>
>> I get all I need from poetry when I'm down in the dungeon, elbows-deep
>> in the language. And when I bring it out, I get more than I need from
>> poetry in the form of free espresso, sandwiches, and intelligent
>> conversation.
>
>So you are happy, be happy.
:)
>
>Will's crowd wouldn't fit with the expressos.
>
>Your crowd wouldn't fit at his neo-beat slam-jam.
>
>I wouldn't fit at either.
>
>Somehow, I can see a place in the world for all of you.
It's the animal/human/biological way-- cut off what is of no use to
the herd. Slide the peg of your now-round remains into the red-hot
hole-- laugh at the squares-- allow the burning to cauterize the
wounds. Breed/teach.
>
>
>> >The fact is, Dockery would lose his audience if he listened
>> >to /YOU/ (too much).
>>
>> Of course he would.
>>
>> And I'd encourage a flea-market trader depriving hopeful fools of
>> their money to quit selling broken junk-- much the same way.
>
>This is the poetic "value-added-savior" coming out.
Bah-- I have no such illusions about my worth. I put my shoulder to
the wheel and push, Tom. I merely object to turds in my pool.
Objection proves nothing.
But:
Will's mauling of my native tongue and
Will's mauling of my artform and
Will's sloppy disregard for craft
are to me what a dog in the cat's bed is to the cat.
Fact is, Will is happy with his efforts, and I don't begrudge him
that. Happiness at all costs, for tomorrow we die again. Fine.
But these turds in my pool... I mean, come on, there's /shit in my
fucking pool!!!/
>
>
>> >
>> >Can you imagine him standing up and reading a Rik Roots poem.
>> >Snore........ too fucking funny!!!
>>
>> Spare me the hyperbole.
>>
>> You know as well as I do that Rik is a competent writer.
>
>Gee, I swear to you I can't stand to read what he calls a poem.
Fair enough.
Not my job to defend his work-- I've stated my opinion on the matter
and we've disagreed. Cheers.
>
>Why would I lie????
Heh.
Your question marks betray you, grasshopper.
<Joy's fine poem and Tom's hysteria snipped>
>
>> You know as well as I do that Rik's poetry would be
>> well-enough-received wherever intelligent fans of poetry are found.
>
>Perhaps, but my taste has no need to follow.
>
>The point that I made is, Dockery has a bigger following,
>and perhaps they aren't all as bright as someone who might
>be willing to slog through Rik, Dockery tolerates Rik, whereas
>Rik can't leave Dockery alone.
>
>Will has heard it, and has repeatedly stated that he doesn't care.
At least he doesn't breed.
>
>Now either the /smart/ idiots accept it, or they harass him forever.
I fart in his general direction.
>
>Most of the /smart/ idiots turn out to be value-added-saviors,
>so the poetry group is a bloody cabbage battle all the time.
>
>
>>
>> And especially in America, where the women (and men, if one is so
>> inclined) /luuuuuve/ an accent.
>
>heh.
>
>>
>> >
>> >> And you've clearly got no interest in learning to make it work.
>> >
>> >He /IS/ making poetry /work/.
>>
>> Same way the flea-market peddler is making /his/ useless junk 'work'--
>> by taking advantage of the sad fools too unwise to leave him baking
>> under his tent in the parking lot with all of his useless shit as his
>> only companion.
>
>If poetry that you and I liked marched in behind Dockery
>they would laugh us out the door, and Dockery would still be
>jammin.
A shit-stinking pig scoffs at a washcloth.
And is pleased with his decision.
Which is fine, because how else would evolution work?
J Rinier
## 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 ##
Malted Bevis
> Fact is, Will is happy with his efforts,
Maybe, maybe not.
I think he views poetry differently than you do.
His purposes are different.
I would call it a difference in quality, but hell,
I can't stand so much that people seem to call quality.
Boreass suck-daddy crap, and idiotic random drivel like this
Dale piece. (but not like Dale can't do better)
> But these turds in my pool... I mean, come on, there's /shit in my
> fucking pool!!!/
This isn't your pool.
http://Savior.At.Poetic.ZapTo.org
If you insist that it is your pool too much, you can do it without
me to listen.
I have my own "value-added-savior" work to do.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways
that won't work." - Thomas Alva Edison
Joshua P. Hill
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>> I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
>> merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
>> you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad I
>> did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a superb
>> poet.
>
>In your opinion.
Of course in my opinion -- who else's would it be?
I might add that I say that despite the fact that he and I are
scarcely talking, and that surrealistic poetry isn't my bag. Which is
to say that while it is an opinion and as such could always be wrong,
it's an honest one.
Malted Bevis
"Joshua P. Hill" <josh442R...@snet.net> wrote in message news:le3b30dkgn3hfbeen...@4ax.com...
> On Thu, 19 Feb 2004 15:17:35 -0800, "Malted Bevis"
> <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
> >
> >> I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
> >> merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
> >> you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad I
> >> did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a superb
> >> poet.
> >
> >In your opinion.
>
> Of course in my opinion -- who else's would it be?
Oh, you aren't running numbers for Peter?
> I might add that I say that despite the fact that he and I are
> scarcely talking, and that surrealistic poetry isn't my bag. Which is
> to say that while it is an opinion and as such could always be wrong,
> it's an honest one.
I don't doubt it, and have found things to like about other
poems of Dale's; I don't find much here, other than Dale
telling me that I just don't understand.
Feh!
I can't find anything in Rik's daddy-suck poetry either.
I'm honest too.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought
which they avoid." - - Soren Aabye Kierkegaard
Dale Houstman
Joshua P. Hill wrote:
>
>
> I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
> merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
> you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad
> I did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a
> superb poet.
Thanks, but I must say ther events of the last year or so, in light of
your support for Bush's "just war," have pretty much proven that it is
your political opinions that are "full of shit," not mine.
dmh
Dale Houstman
Honesty isn't Tom's bag.
dmh
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> On Wed, 18 Feb 2004 12:48:32 -0800, "Malted Bevis"
> >
> >Will could not use a Rik Roots poem at his venue very well.
>
> No more than a dog could use a bulldozer to bury bones.
>
No mutt can afford to try to bury bones with a Cat.
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
The sucking noises made by Babies is not law,
no matter how many of them *agree* that it is.
http://scrawlmark.org
Dennis M. Hammes
>
> > I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
> > merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
> > you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad I
> > did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a superb
> > poet.
>
> In your opinion.
It's better'n yours.
Malted Bevis
> Honesty isn't Tom's bag.
You are a ass for impugning my honesty.
I can't even forge a note from my landlord to the pound so I can
adopt a cat, since it would be a lie.
I am, if anything, always in trouble for being honest.
I was and still am being totally honest with you.
When you tell me that you think my poetry sucks I don't doubt you.
You give me zero credit, fine, I accept it, and am not even flinching.
I am simply trying to find out what there is to /get/ in what
you throw out as poetry.
I can't see it.
My poetry on the otherhand, I can easily point to the areas
of cleverness that I /crafted in/. DT, same. GMH, same.
e.e. cummings, same, Hammes, same, Talent, same.
A number of very different styles.
Dale Houstman, not really.
"A few striking images... not connected" -- is the best I have
ever had to say about your poetry. Leaving out the "not connected"
if I was trying to be more kind, and not /set you off/.
I think to a large degree you are pretty damn talentless,
and you rely on your index cards, and fill in the rest
with hot-air VAS bullshit.
To compound it, you hurl personal insults, and impugn
character of people that have spent quite a lot of time
working for you.
(that web site design that you eventually spit at,
was from scratch, just for you)
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
The sucking noises made by failed poets is not <fill in the blank>,
no matter how persistently tell you to FOAD.
- an Tomble / ennis / rocket, collaborative quotation
Copyright 2004, Tom Bishop Inc. "Don't Read On ME!"(tm)
Malted Bevis
"Dale Houstman" <dm...@citilink.com> wrote in message news:4036092A...@citilink.com...
Pressing your value-added-savior act into politics on a poetry group
is pretty fucking stupid.
You have enough trouble with poetry.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"The world is full of asses, but muleshit grows lilacs."
-- Dennis M. Hammes
Joshua P. Hill
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>"Joshua P. Hill" <josh442R...@snet.net> wrote in message news:le3b30dkgn3hfbeen...@4ax.com...
>> On Thu, 19 Feb 2004 15:17:35 -0800, "Malted Bevis"
>> <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>>
>> >
>> >> I haven't been around here for a while so hadn't read it -- I was
>> >> merely referring to your comment about those two phrases. But, since
>> >> you mention it, I found the head of the thread and read it. I'm glad I
>> >> did. Dale's political opinions may be full of shit, but he's a superb
>> >> poet.
>> >
>> >In your opinion.
>>
>> Of course in my opinion -- who else's would it be?
>
>Oh, you aren't running numbers for Peter?
666, perhaps
>> I might add that I say that despite the fact that he and I are
>> scarcely talking, and that surrealistic poetry isn't my bag. Which is
>> to say that while it is an opinion and as such could always be wrong,
>> it's an honest one.
>
>I don't doubt it, and have found things to like about other
>poems of Dale's; I don't find much here, other than Dale
>telling me that I just don't understand.
>
>Feh!
>
>I can't find anything in Rik's daddy-suck poetry either.
>
>I'm honest too.
I don't completely "understand" every poem I read -- often, I miss
things, or see things that aren't there -- typically, I don't have the
time to read and mull sufficiently. So if someone tells me I didn't
understand something in a poem written by a poet I respect, I'm apt to
believe him. He may not be right, but more often than not, if he's
serious about poetry, he is.
Anyway, for me the bottom line isn't so much understanding as it is
appreciation. A good poem is like a mountain rich with minerals: if
you're a good miner, you can find everything from coal to gold. And
the longer you work at it, the more you find. The idea isn't to make
an accurate map of every saphire and ruby, but to explore sufficiently
so that you can extract the deposits you find useful for your fire, or
your girlfriend's ring.
Malted Bevis
>
> I don't completely "understand" every poem I read -- often, I miss
> things, or see things that aren't there -- typically, I don't have the
> time to read and mull sufficiently. So if someone tells me I didn't
> understand something in a poem written by a poet I respect, I'm apt to
> believe him. He may not be right, but more often than not, if he's
> serious about poetry, he is.
But don't you trust your own mind on it, to decide if the thing they are
pointing out have relevance to you?
>
> Anyway, for me the bottom line isn't so much understanding as it is
> appreciation. A good poem is like a mountain rich with minerals: if
> you're a good miner, you can find everything from coal to gold. And
> the longer you work at it, the more you find. The idea isn't to make
> an accurate map of every saphire and ruby, but to explore sufficiently
> so that you can extract the deposits you find useful for your fire, or
> your girlfriend's ring.
I find this about some poetry, and not about other poetry.
I am trying to shout it out as loudly as possible, so that if
there is something I'm missing, eventually, someone might point it out.
I appreciate ambiguity, and some level of subtly, but perhaps
the level of subtly of a lot of poetry is beyond me, or its subject
matter is boring to me (A LOT OF THIS) apart from quality.
Unlike some people, I never assume /that/ is a lack in me.
I just don't like X.
(I like certain types of music, and not others, blah)
If X is something general that I don't like, then there are possibly instances
of X that I might like.
If X is something specific, and I don't like it, and many people
say they do like it, then isn't it natural for me to want to know why?
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"If you don't like sonnets just think of them as
quatorzains with peculiar rhyme schemes."
Joshua P. Hill
wrote:
I disagree: I think the Iraqi people are far better off today than
they were when they were being fed to Saddam's plastic slicer, and
while the intelligence on WMD's was inadequate, Saddam had every
opportunity to set the record straight and never did. I do wish the
Bush Administration hadn't made a mess of the international diplomacy,
but then, I wish the Bush Administration hadn't done a lot of things.
But we probably shouldn't be talking about this. We'll just end up in
an argument again. My fault for bringing it up.
Malted Bevis
> But we probably shouldn't be talking about this. We'll just end up in
> an argument again. My fault for bringing it up.
Write a poem about it?
..gee, we live in interesting, life and death times.
Write an "Apologetic" ..or a "Victory in our Times" poem...
.....for mother poetry.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"So many women, so few hatboxes."
-- Dale Houstman
Joshua P. Hill
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>>
>> I don't completely "understand" every poem I read -- often, I miss
>> things, or see things that aren't there -- typically, I don't have the
>> time to read and mull sufficiently. So if someone tells me I didn't
>> understand something in a poem written by a poet I respect, I'm apt to
>> believe him. He may not be right, but more often than not, if he's
>> serious about poetry, he is.
>
>But don't you trust your own mind on it, to decide if the thing they are
>pointing out have relevance to you?
Not completely, because even if I were a perfeect judge of poetic
merit (and nobody is or can be that), I've noticed that I frequently
/come/ to appreciate a poem. Sometimes the process can take years,
with the poem having more impact each time I come across it. Sometimes
I've come to appreciate a poet whom I originally disliked, e.g., Walt
Whitman -- I still think he would have done well to edit out every
other word, but within the jungle growth are any number of marvellous
parrots.
>> Anyway, for me the bottom line isn't so much understanding as it is
>> appreciation. A good poem is like a mountain rich with minerals: if
>> you're a good miner, you can find everything from coal to gold. And
>> the longer you work at it, the more you find. The idea isn't to make
>> an accurate map of every saphire and ruby, but to explore sufficiently
>> so that you can extract the deposits you find useful for your fire, or
>> your girlfriend's ring.
>
>I find this about some poetry, and not about other poetry.
>
>I am trying to shout it out as loudly as possible, so that if
>there is something I'm missing, eventually, someone might point it out.
>
>I appreciate ambiguity, and some level of subtly, but perhaps
>the level of subtly of a lot of poetry is beyond me, or its subject
>matter is boring to me (A LOT OF THIS) apart from quality.
>
>Unlike some people, I never assume /that/ is a lack in me.
>I just don't like X.
>
>(I like certain types of music, and not others, blah)
It doesn't apply to all poetry, just good and particularly great
poetry. Anyway, my way of thinking about it is very different from
yours: sure, I'm an opinionated SOB, but I tend to think that if many
people I respect -- writers, professors, sophisticated readers --
think something is admirable, there's probably something in it. Our
differences may be nothing more than a matter of taste, but until I
feel I understand what they enjoyed about the poem I try to keep an
open mind, because otherwise I'd be cutting myself off from discovery
and growth.
>If X is something general that I don't like, then there are possibly instances
>of X that I might like.
>
>If X is something specific, and I don't like it, and many people
>say they do like it, then isn't it natural for me to want to know why?
Sure -- see above. The thing is, with art one doesn't often get a very
good explanation, because people frequently don't know /why/ they like
something. Appreciation of a work is very different from analysis of a
work, from opening the case and examining its nuts and bolts.
Karla
>
>
>> But we probably shouldn't be talking about this. We'll just end up in
>> an argument again. My fault for bringing it up.
>
>
>Write a poem about it?
I'd like to read a poem about it. I took this class at De Anza some year's back
and met 4 young women fresh from The Shah's grasp. After reading the news in US
papers, their account was almost like reading a sci fi fantasy novel. A poem
reflecting that or Joshua's newly slice(d) of life opinion, if done well, would
be a good read.
>..gee, we live in interesting, life and death times.
>
>Write an "Apologetic" ..or a "Victory in our Times" poem...
>
>.....for mother poetry.
Why don't I like this phrase?
Karla
Karla
>
>On Fri, 20 Feb 2004 08:48:07 -0800, "Malted Bevis"
><Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>>(I like certain types of music, and not others, blah)
>
>It doesn't apply to all poetry, just good and particularly great
>poetry. Anyway, my way of thinking about it is very different from
>yours: sure, I'm an opinionated SOB, but I tend to think that if many
>people I respect -- writers, professors, sophisticated readers --
>think something is admirable, there's probably something in it. Our
>differences may be nothing more than a matter of taste, but until I
>feel I understand what they enjoyed about the poem I try to keep an
>open mind, because otherwise I'd be cutting myself off from discovery
>and growth.
Sometimes one's feelings are justified. A great many of Ezra Pound's poems
should be dismissed. We suffer through them because of who Ezra Pound was, not
on the merit of the poem. The same for Gertrude Stein. Had she not been such a
prominent figure in the Lost Generation, we'd not be reading many of her poems
today on merit alone. Consider:
"A Long Dress
WHAT is the current that makes machinery, that makes it
crackle, what is the current that presents a long line and a
necessary waist. What is this current.
What is the wind, what is it.
Where is the serene length, it is there and a dark place is not
a dark place, only a white and red are black, only a yellow
and green are blue, a pink is scarlet, a bow is every color.
A line distinguishes it. A line just distinguishes it.
Gertrude Stein"
Had some unknown cyber poster posted these lines, would you have hailed it great
on its merits alone?
Karla
>
>>If X is something general that I don't like, then there are possibly instances
>>of X that I might like.
>>
>>If X is something specific, and I don't like it, and many people
>>say they do like it, then isn't it natural for me to want to know why?
>
>Sure -- see above. The thing is, with art one doesn't often get a very
>good explanation, because people frequently don't know /why/ they like
>something. Appreciation of a work is very different from analysis of a
>work, from opening the case and examining its nuts and bolts.
Nuts and bolts and the tool box too.
Karla
Malted Bevis
> Not completely, because even if I were a perfeect judge of poetic
> merit (and nobody is or can be that), I've noticed that I frequently
> /come/ to appreciate a poem. Sometimes the process can take years,
> with the poem having more impact each time I come across it. Sometimes
> I've come to appreciate a poet whom I originally disliked, e.g., Walt
> Whitman -- I still think he would have done well to edit out every
> other word, but within the jungle growth are any number of marvellous
> parrots.
There is some reason to believe that might happen.
> It doesn't apply to all poetry, just good and particularly great
> poetry. Anyway, my way of thinking about it is very different from
> yours: sure, I'm an opinionated SOB, but I tend to think that if many
> people I respect -- writers, professors, sophisticated readers --
> think something is admirable, there's probably something in it. Our
> differences may be nothing more than a matter of taste, but until I
> feel I understand what they enjoyed about the poem I try to keep an
> open mind, because otherwise I'd be cutting myself off from discovery
> and growth.
My mind remains more open than you might think.
> Sure -- see above. The thing is, with art one doesn't often get a very
> good explanation, because people frequently don't know /why/ they like
> something. Appreciation of a work is very different from analysis of a
> work, from opening the case and examining its nuts and bolts.
I hear you, and my technique for obtaining information can feel like
robbery, I imagine.
And of course no one on Usenet has to teach me anything.
But they will, godammit. :-)
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"We have Art to save ourselves from the truth."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
J Rinier
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>
>> Fact is, Will is happy with his efforts,
>
>Maybe, maybe not.
>
>I think he views poetry differently than you do.
>
>His purposes are different.
>
>I would call it a difference in quality, but hell,
> I can't stand so much that people seem to call quality.
>
>Boreass suck-daddy crap, and idiotic random drivel like this
>Dale piece. (but not like Dale can't do better)
>
>
>
>> But these turds in my pool... I mean, come on, there's /shit in my
>> fucking pool!!!/
>
>This isn't your pool.
Heh.
Yes, it is.
It's /my/ language (possession is the first rule of appreciation),
it's /my/ civilization, and it's my fuckin monitor.
Will (and everyone) makes the decision to wade in everyone else’s pool
every time he posts. No big deal-- that's life. Every day people
wade in and out of your sphere, dropping bits of themselves as they
go. Mostly, pack nature tends toward pleasantry, to avoid
disruptions. Lovely. But Will's turding in my language isn't
pleasant; it's annoying, and it stinks.
And it's rude, like a person on the subway coughing in your direction
without covering their mouth.
As I said in another post, I don't really care all that much. He's
easily ignored. He's happy enough with his life and doesn't /try/ to
visit his ills on us-- he merely does as he pleases.
But don't expect that I am obligated to be apathetic toward his
disruptions. That's weak. I'll call it like it /is/, and leave it at
that.
>
> http://Savior.At.Poetic.ZapTo.org
>
>If you insist that it is your pool too much, you can do it without
>me to listen.
Yur breakin my heart.
>
>I have my own "value-added-savior" work to do.
We are now shaking callers.
J Rinier
<Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote:
>
>
>> Fact is, Will is happy with his efforts,
>
>Maybe, maybe not.
>
>I think he views poetry differently than you do.
>
>His purposes are different.
>
>I would call it a difference in quality, but hell,
> I can't stand so much that people seem to call quality.
>
>Boreass suck-daddy crap, and idiotic random drivel like this
>Dale piece. (but not like Dale can't do better)
>
>
>
>> But these turds in my pool... I mean, come on, there's /shit in my
>> fucking pool!!!/
>
>This isn't your pool.
Heh.
Yes, it is.
It's /my/ language (possession is the first rule of appreciation),
it's /my/ civilization, and it's my fuckin monitor.
Will (and everyone) makes the decision to wade in everyone else’s pool
every time he posts. No big deal-- that's life. Every day people
wade in and out of your sphere, dropping bits of themselves as they
go. Mostly, pack nature tends toward pleasantry, to avoid
disruptions. Lovely. But Will's turding in my language isn't
pleasant; it's annoying, and it stinks.
It's rude, like a person on the subway coughing in your direction
without covering their mouth.
As I said in another post, I don't really care all that much. He's
easily ignored. He's happy enough with his life and doesn't /try/ to
visit his ills on us-- he merely does as he pleases.
But don't expect that anyone is obligated to be apathetic toward his
disruptions. That's weak. I'll call it like it /is/, and leave it at
that.
>
> http://Savior.At.Poetic.ZapTo.org
>
>If you insist that it is your pool too much, you can do it without
>me to listen.
Yur breakin my heart.
<snip>
Malted Bevis
"Karla" <kar...@earthlink.net> wrote in message news:c15o6...@drn.newsguy.com...
> In article <403647ec$1...@127.0.0.1>, Malted Bevis says...
> >
> >
> >> But we probably shouldn't be talking about this. We'll just end up in
> >> an argument again. My fault for bringing it up.
> >
> >
> >Write a poem about it?
>
> I'd like to read a poem about it. I took this class at De Anza some year's back
> and met 4 young women fresh from The Shah's grasp. After reading the news in US
> papers, their account was almost like reading a sci fi fantasy novel. A poem
> reflecting that or Joshua's newly slice(d) of life opinion, if done well, would
> be a good read.
Just released:
Associated Stress:
Usenet meter phreaks create an "Iambic" Naked News channel.
More details:
Poetry buffs did just that today, as men and women alike
from the famous Usenet poetry groups, aapc and rap stripped
their knickers and read their own iambic pentameter versions
of current news stories on the newly createted, independent
news show "The Naked Chicken Review".
Major networks are rushing to sign the poets to multi-million dollar
contracts for everything from "Reality Shows" to Tennis Shoe
endorsements.
News sources reported that the poets, for the most part, were very
well behaved. But there was one particularly frenetic fellow with
a small penis that keep getting in front of the others with a sign
that read "UPOY". No one seemed to know what it meant,
however.
>
> >..gee, we live in interesting, life and death times.
> >
> >Write an "Apologetic" ..or a "Victory in our Times" poem...
> >
> >.....for mother poetry.
>
> Why don't I like this phrase?
Because I said it?
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"dog eb tsum yug shit"
Joshua P. Hill
I think I would have been impressed by the first stanza, and
recommended putting the second out of its misery. But I agree -- not
everything that's celebrated is great, or even good.
Periodically, someone who thinks he's fiendishly clever posts as his
own a minor work by a major poet here in order to prove that the
regulars are as critical of good poetry as they are of his own.
Inevitably, someone comes along who recognizes it. But before that, on
every occasion where I haven't recognized the poem, my reaction has
been to sit up and say, "Hey, that's good!", and that's given me a
certain amount of faith in my ability to recognize decent poetry.
OTOH, that's not the same thing as distinguishing the great from the
good, which is a far more difficult proposition. It's just evidence
that craft isn't, as some believe, unimportant or purely subjective,
and that someone who's reasonably well read can detect it. (Of course,
I doubt I'd react positively to Pound's wackier efforts.)
yyyiii...@yahoo.com
"Malted Bevis" <Str...@Dessert.Filling> wrote in message
news:4036bc7c$1...@127.0.0.1...
are you trying to be cute?
Karla
hmmm, don't think so.
Although I've got a cynical side at times about poetry, poets, poetics, poetry culture, etc., I
guess I also get defensive about my joy in all of those things too.
Karla
Malted Bevis
> >Because I said it?
>
> hmmm, don't think so.
>
> Although I've got a cynical side at times about poetry, poets, poetics, poetry culture, etc., I
> guess I also get defensive about my joy in all of those things too.
>
> Karla
>
Both cynical or defensive are postures that
leave you in an emotional state, apart from the reality.
There is a calm place in the middle that holds them both,
but has no words.
Or not.
--
Tom Bishop -- http://Poetic.ZapTo.Org
"We have Art to save ourselves from the truth."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
Dennis M. Hammes
Pound, of cuss, descended back into socialist screech, and Blake,
e.g., into the schizophrenically random, but habituated elements of
style, symbol and vocabulary persist (usually).
Which is in disctinction (usually) to those who never rose from
either condition in the first place.
Joshua P. Hill
Excellent point. And, of course, even the vilest Pound could be great:
With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting
that design might cover their face,
with usura
hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall
harpes et luthes
or where virgin receiveth message
and halo projects from incision,
with ursura
seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines
no picture is made to endure nor to live with
but it is made to sell and sell quickly
Dale Houstman
Karla wrote:
>
> Sometimes one's feelings are justified. A great many of Ezra Pound's poems
> should be dismissed. We suffer through them because of who Ezra Pound was, not
> on the merit of the poem. The same for Gertrude Stein. Had she not been such a
> prominent figure in the Lost Generation, we'd not be reading many of her poems
> today on merit alone. Consider:
>
> "A Long Dress
>
> WHAT is the current that makes machinery, that makes it
> crackle, what is the current that presents a long line and a
> necessary waist. What is this current.
> What is the wind, what is it.
>
> Where is the serene length, it is there and a dark place is not
> a dark place, only a white and red are black, only a yellow
> and green are blue, a pink is scarlet, a bow is every color.
> A line distinguishes it. A line just distinguishes it.
>
> Gertrude Stein"
>
> Had some unknown cyber poster posted these lines, would you have hailed it great
> on its merits alone?
>
> Karla
>
>
>
Why this emphasis on "great"? Stein's poetic approach (arising somewhat
from the Cubists, a little from her studies in psychology, and her
understanding of automatic writing) is unique and - I think - utterly
charming. And I am certain that - had some anonymous poster presented
them - I would (first) recognize that they were "Steinian" and (second)
find them interesting.
dmh