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<20><><EFBFBD> ..edited, compiled, prelimanarily perused,
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Homer The Brave
Issue Number 6!
"I am not a number, I am a free 'zine!"
-----------------------
When WAS the last time you just took a big long dump and wondered
what it was that was REALLY coming out? This happens to me all the
time. I'm very curious. If I am what I eat, then I'm really glad,
because I don't want to be what my colon hath rejected!
Anyway, I bring this up as a reminder that there is a lot of good
nutritious stuff out there for your reading pleasure, and that you
shouldn't just automatically void whatever you don't like. Sit in
your own exremeditation chamber and contemplate the very smelliness
of it all. If it was horrid and bad and nasty and just plain dumb,
maybe you just didn't understand it. Mindfulness, kiddies. Why did
you eat it in the first place if you knew damn well your body would
toss it into the ceramic throne? You had to taste it! You had to feel
it in your mouth, sweet, tangy, crunchy, soft... You had to smell it,
odorous and toxic and aromatic. And you had to see it, too! Laid out
with care on its platter or presented in a cardboard box after you
paid for it at the drive-thru, it enticed you! YOU HAD TO KNOW! And
even if you found out and when you found out it was because you were
sitting on the American Standard Recycling Bin, you knew the poetic
moment. All your senses had not only conspired against you, but shown
you the beauty of their secret plan.
The hope, of course, is that you'll consume this 'zine and shit
nothing.
Anyway, anyway... After long last, and much procrastinating and much
hemming and hawing and much waiting for the SoulFAQ people to send in
their answers to the questions, here it is! Sleek, trim, wonderful.
1/3 less fat than others of its kind. Full satisfaction or your money
back.
We love you.
And we want you to call our little Home Away From But Not Really
Because You Call It From Home Home, Howl! BBS (713) 862-1415. KAWL
2-DAY! If you'd like to submit work for subsequent issues of Tamer
Shrew, KAWL S00NIR!!! :-)
-----------------------
ALL WORK PRESENTED REMAINS THE PROPERTY OF THE ORIGINAL AUTHORS!
Don't be stealin' it, ok?
-----------------------
Rant #2
--maeve the magnificent
You want me to chop off your penis.
You want me to take Elena Bobbit into me
a raped beaten demon of vengeance
into MY memory
severing my thoughts.
You want me, possesed to take the bloody kitchen knife
and castrate your sexuality.
You want me to forget my mothers:
Margaret, Anne, Sylvia, Adrienne
their stories, their poems, pens,
mouths,
their truth.
You'd like me to forget to speak
to know only the knife
cut you with it
so you can cut out my tongue,
my womb,
my heart,
my brain.
An unskilled abortionist,
cut it all out.
You want to blame me
like you blamed my (your) mothers
aunts, sisters, cousins
for your need to peek and flash
put pretty eye-coated, red-cheeked
long-lashed, swollen butt,
ballon-boobed dolls on the wall.
I threaten your sexuality.
The one you say you've owned by putting us there
How can you own something you never had?
Your sexuality is past due, repo'ed, man.
What? Do you think I've come to collect ?
or any of us?
With our breasts salted up,
our vacuumed thighs,
we can't even pay our perfect woman debts
not from your empty account vaulted beneath your fat flesh.
Nothing but loneliness locked up beneath your photographer's eye.
Hell, you sold your penis before I learned to speak-
to your mama maybe?
-----------------------
lemon knife and quine
collective hiccup in vocation
--fortunate hazel
if you cannot, let the forces script it.
symbolic behavior is hard to avoid,
in dreams and in streams of life-blood,
freeway, slow day on the couch, girlfriend.
if you have not, let the (f)ishes (w)ish for it.
shoes are walking tools, truth is,
action is a tool for use, storyboard,
if someone else is watching you,
all symbolic action, dream to dream, between,
life, energy mass and happy bank transactions,
life! energy passed up(out) and acted out(up) in words!
if someone else is watching it's all reference.
symbolic patterns are credited to conscious,
streams of water, altered, history or pathway,
drain, coffee filter, the hiss of winter driving.
if you will not, let the eyes drifting watch it.
behavior is observe, resolve, and evolve,
for life, transmitter and perfect pitch, in images.
if you have will, free it and observe its flight,
choice, refreshment or rest, best referenced to:
life, equation for patterns of mass, acorn and IQ.
self replicating and educating, idea and quine:
"refers to itself in preceding quotation"
refers to itself in preceding quotation,
"refers to itself in proceeding generation/explanation"
refers to itself in proceeding generation/explanation-
spirit and idea, laughing and vacationing,
people in books in people in books in ladle and look!
ocean, soup, nutrient nourishing truth,
"says god in spirit in symbol in vocation"
says god in spirit in symbol in vocation.
-----------------------
lovesgaspingplea
--adonis nothing
where are you?
where are you now?
i need you and you can't tell
i want you and you don't know it
i know you and you deny it
why won't you listen
why must you hide
you tell me you lie
i think your dishonest is the only untruth
why afraid of me?
what would i...
could i...
do?
nothing
not to you
the spark in this darkness
the promise of so much more
you are the core of my universe
and you won't know it
can i help you trust me?
will you...
try?
-----------------------
QUICK! YOU'RE GOD!
--homer the brave
I went around and I asked a bunch of people
a whole bunch of people.
I asked 'em
QUICK! You're GOD! What do you do NEXT?
And they answered.
And I was fucking amazed.
Nothing
they'd say.
nothing.
I'd do nothing and let everyone pretend
I was just human.
I'd walk through the world like some cheap-ass
human
with no power, no divinity, no special beauty
I'd just sit around and be smug, knowing that I knew
something
they didn't.
A lot of people said this.
They said it over and over.
Nothing, they'd say.
I interviewed everyone,
everywhere, all over.
everyone
Nothing, they'd say.
They'd do nothing.
They said just that
The vast, huge majority
said just that.
And the tiny, obscure
minority
when asked
answered thusly:
I'd make everyone happy.
so I ask... happy?
Happy. sez they.
Sez they:
I'd make everyone happy
everyone peaceful
everyone content.
No more war, no more hatred
no more borders or poverty
no more politics, which is
poverty of the spirit
no more need for spirituality
only the experience
of spirit
no more need for god
just GOD
which I guess would be me
I'd make my divine ass irrelevant
so I ask why happy? why not sad?
why not vengeful?
Happy. just cuz. sez they.
And I can respect that.
-----------------------
[untitled]
--mycroft
as i sit here, pulling the last shards of glass from my scalp,
i come to a conclusion
if i had died tonight, it wouldn't have mattered. at all.
sure, a few people would have mourned, a couple might have never
been the same, but there would be no great potential that was
snuffed out. no great dreams would be ended.
i used to live life with the thought, `if i am to die today, i
want to be able to say that i have lived.' and i did, i really
lived it up. nothing was more important to me than to suck the
marrow from life and drink it's juices down. now, i almost have
died, and i find my `life' wanting. if the sign i ran my
mother's car into had been two feet closer to the freeway, my
sleeping skull would have shattered along with the windshield. i
would be dead and the world wouldn't be any the worse for wear
[time, a few days later...]
i'm walking around what appears to be a freedman's graveyard
off of montrose/west dallas. people drive past me, oblivious to
the utter state of decay of this graveyard. nobody cares enough
to pull the weeds that completely cover some graves, or re-bury
sarcophogi that rise to the surface. nobody remembers these
people but me, now. i don't want to be like this, ever. if i
die, people might say that i lived, but for what? it's no longer
just good enough for me to just be knowledgeable and
interesting, to have seen and done it all. i want the world to
hurt if i am taken before my time.
i've been slowly preparing for college the past few weeks, now
i am attending classes and dealing with the day-to-day shit that
surrounds them. before this accident, i was dreading the work
and toil it would take to educate myself, now i'm ready for it.
i am going to make something of myself which the world will want
and need. i'm ready to grow up now.
-----------------------
Question
--echo
In a cosmic ocean, whos to blame
if noone knows from where they came
Would we die of pity,
Would we die of shame
If we find sometimes we feel the same?
In a timeless circle, who says whats real
and whos to dictate what we feel
Is destiny set
Can we break the seal
In the end our very soul to heal
If I stole your freedom
and stole your name
Would it take away
from thus you came
Money, Honor, Power, Fame
When facing death
whoe'd be to blame?
Is this life you're living
a life of steel
Do you believe
that you turn the wheel
Or do before your God to kneel
Is your life
Something you must steal?
I'm hungry, thirsty
didnt get
What in the end
I'll just call IT
I've won and lost
games called regret
There must be something
better yet
I'm searching, winning
living true
In the end
We'll all break through
living lifetimes
each second new
Was I me
or was I you?
Put side by side
compared to whose
The right to life
Is the right to choose
Appear together
thats Nature's news
So why on surface
things confuse?
A life so precious
Each secound bought
As time moves onward
life is caught
Within a circle
of spinning thought
Will we ever learn
the things we taught?
Your life touched mine
and mine yours too
We still proclaim
that friends are few
Shout-and uphold opposing views
Denying truth
Long overdue
Spending your life
to reach some goal
Never seeing
past your role
Life is more than a blackend hole
Finding truth
in our Shinning Soul.
-----------------------
Beatnik Ego
--xann (keith dennis)
ATTENTION.
ATTENTION.
ATTENTION.
attention.
hey, misder keid dddennis....dis is yr ego callin....i know theres a
spirit in there somewhere...im addressing you....when youse writin, its
all you.
but when youse reading, its all me.
the name of the game. ham bone.
slambone. any home dat can have you, any skirt you can have
were all so lonely
all so lovely, all so sullen.
but, we all got dark and light, you know,
like
its all rolled into one, jack.
jack. yeeeaaaahhhh.
hes our man, dig,
but if he cant do it...
louis ferlinghetti, dig it.
you gotta keep me alive...keep the beat, misder keid...im the junkie here,
im the inspiration here...i give you conflict. i makes you want that
girl...i makes you want that monney..
i knew this sagiterrean cat back in detroit, and says he one day, real
wise-like,
"why should i mind
what you find
when you look inside of me?
"i think its kind
yr not blind
to who
i
want
to
be."
and he goes on to say, like this here, like maybe an A minor & an E minor
for gooood measure, jack:
"turn and face the masses
place on yr soul glasses
end the fascination
puke up fabrication
find out who you are;
well i wonder
yeah i wonder
who
you
really
are."
i was singing like this see, on my way to the madhatter one night south of
the modor sidheee, and it hit me, what this sagiterrean cat said once, he
said "hey, dig this shit, man, man alive, its like the
spirit
need only be correct its the ego dets weak you dig"isaididighegoeson"well,
its like diss, man, you up on det staagge, jack, its all so strange, jack
all them people, all 30 of em, clappin like nobodies biz at you,
you, dis local cat who can tit for tat tell dem brats where its at, dig
it, ahright...so you love it, now you aint so pure no mo, youse high on
that applause, youse high on the women, dey all wanna fuck you cause you
got a mind to go widdat cute lil 19 yr old assahyrs, right, and like, now
you write for them, deys like you audience, diggit...it aint so pure
anymore...what you writin for..."
"thoughts are bullets in the flesh gun of man
the dead unloaded we fear them!
"we give them value in a worthless state cause
someday were gonna be near them!
"flesh hides monsters inside of us all
...although we try not to see them
animals call out, and animals crawl out;
...when you have sex you will free them!
and on and on i sang, on my way, with my guitar stashed securely away, to
another date, another day w/o no tannnngible pay. all dem songs, cat. i
haddall dem songs intact. tight. i get into it, hambone, i picked my
hambones clean for dem people, and one year later, i see it, cats, i see
it kittens, its all so clear, what im doin up here, i was lookin at the
chixxx, man...i looked at udderstuff too...but de chixxx...i said to
myself, i gotta mind, i gotta mind, i think about things, i think about
things...yeah...
"ANIMAL PASSION, ESCAPES MY
LIPS (X)
ANIMAL PASSION, IM ONNA
TRIP (X)
ANIMAL PASSION, ITS DRIVIN MY
HIPS (X)
animal passion, i wanna slip
inside
animal me
animal you
i see animal me
inside animal, animal you
animal me, animal you
i see animal me
inside aaanimal
cannibal
you"
and on and on i sang. i sang that song in a dennys once, next to a girl
that was as fucked in the head as any motherly replica ive ever chased.
she went crazy. she squirmed in her seat.
i realized i was onto something, something extraordinary. egotistical.
evil when in the wrong hands. i had the wrong hands that night. i used the
most truthful, bitterly truthful poem id ever heard, written by dat
sageterrean cat, dat modor sidheee uncle wayne of mine, to put the hot
seat on the girl. and it almost worked. good thing it didnt. dat was a lil
rough, even for me..
why do we write? why are we up here?
ok, lets have it out like this. we write cause something hurts, we write
cause something feels good, we write because theres this nothingness
intowhich something maybe nonordinary walks, or maybe something so normal,
so real that its pure poetry, and we write about it. we can imagine it,
and then write it, if we like, it can be fiction, you could write the book
on anything true false or altogether something other than else.
but then, why do we read?
why am i, why are any one of us here...what the hell do we think were
doing here, up at the top of these steps in dallas, deep ellum, city java
cafe, and so on. who told us to do this? i sure as hell wasnt invited!
these are the things i ask myself when i wake up in the morning.
i just woke up.
ill take a stab, which anyone here can remove and thrust back into me. i
like pitchforking myself and others in the rear end, i like to shake
things up, so, friends and neighbors, lovers, patriots...why are we doing
this? sam modica asked himself something similar last week...his wife
wondered why he went to read poetry here or whereever...he gave us all a
pretty good answer. hes older than me, hes seen a lot more.
what about YOU?
ego?
ego got the best of you?
remember now, go back go back...it was like a big panaoramic photo of a
serial killer...all the faces were dark except for the girlssss...you
looked up from yr mouthpiece like so, in between the songs in the show,
you looked at the girls....at the girls...
n dat sag cat was right--some of em did, some of em did wanna fuck, you
know it....deysey...dkid musshave a myeined...couldnt be after just one
thing, my kittens in arms...no no no, that cat must want us all for our
brains...
ooooooh, didnt it feel so goood....
to get them compliments like you knew you would
oooooh, aint it soooo nice.....
even now...even then...even always, pickin yr hambone clean, boy, pickin
yr hambone clean...
im so proud i got a spirit behind me...so nice to be one up on all the
other cats...i got invisible, invincible means of protection, support and
so on and always so forth.
oooooh, you goin places kid, that late night queen says write my
biography, you big hunk of a witty man...yr reedeemer called you a very
interesting poet, member dat, yeh!
oooooh, its top of the hep heap for you, boy....just last week, yeah, all
yr friends said you got soul all the people clapped, like old times, they
clapped for you...clapping for you...
oooooh, boy, look out world, sag cat says you need to put out a book,
everyone else has, that old tom cat said he was in the prescence of a poet
at t crash worship carnival just last week
and ooooooooh, boy, the other day, across the way, dat young thing said to
you, boy hey! "im gonna see you in an an
tho
lo
gie
of
contem
pora-ry
america
n
p o e t r y
some
day."
oooooooooooooooooooooooh
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmdont dat makeyoufeelso gooooood.
now you go home on tuesday and you say, what can i write for the audience
on wednesday?
you write a confession...you expose the beatnik skirtchasing wineguzzling
wordjunkie in you, and in us all.
you chase skirt
guzzle wine
you live off text that makes you wanna start a revolution
and then say youse a pilgrim
well, keith dennis, this is yr beatnik ego callin, the one that needs to
be the voice of the next wave, generation Y. and i say
get off the high horse, lad...you aint nothin big....youse a writer, sure,
you express yrself, sure...but that aint nothin yr housewife mother dont do
when she decides to get creative, try variety, and buy
a sara lee pie when shes furiously scribbling her grocery list
all her children clapped at the choice she made. sara lee apple...mmmmm.
congradulations on expressing yrself, mommy. the sweet taste of success,
w/half the fat!
-----------------------
dream, 6/3/94
--homer the brave
I was with the other man, and we were on the beach, near the bungalow.
There were trees planted there with a curious characteristic: One limb
of each tree, when moved, would produce a sweet, high-pitched note. The
sound was reminiscent of a flute, but more like a flute that was inside
a tree. The trees themselves looked to be cypress or redwood, or some
strange combination of the two, and they soared up towards the heavens.
So we stood there on the beach for some time, moving the limbs of these
trees. It took only a short time to understand the technique. Easy
enough. We would move the limbs in contrary melodies, and see who could
evoke the highest and lowest note from our trees. We smiled broadly at
each other, held in a kind of childish bliss.
Before long, we began to accompany the waves as they washed up on the
sand. Slowly, in long phrases, and the moon was floating solemnly
overhead. We gave up smiling for a sort of understood quiet, as though
we had just had a long and meaningful discussion, he and I, and we were
now digesting all that had been said.
He spoke. "We should summon a tidal wave. Do you think we can?"
I replied cautiously, "Do you think we have that sort of power? Do you
think we could do such a thing? And should we?"
"You talk too much," he said, a grin returning to his face.
I continued to passively accompany the waves. He, however, would play
louder, longer, with each rush of the tide, building and building.
Our host came out of the bungalo and approached. She sat between the
two trees, as if she knew what he were doing, and smiled approvingly.
She looked at me, saying, "If its going to work, you'll have to join
in."
I thought for a moment, shrugged, and said, "What the hell."
We harmonized, building louder and stronger. Our two trees began to
create overtones that implied fundamental frequencies much, much deeper
than either of us could hear or understand even. But we felt it.
As we continued, we heard a deep, dark rumbling from the horizon. Had
it really worked? Or was this thunder from a nearby storm?
In came a huge wave, 25 feet high at least. It rushed towards us. Panic
struck my brain and just as I was about to run away, I realized there
was really nowhere I could go. Something inside me continued to play
the tree.
The wave gradually halted, towering over our heads. All was totally and
completely silent; it stood there, a vast wall of water. I could see
small fish swimming inside it. It seemed to be listening... to our
music.
-----------------------
The Wise-Man, The Dirt-Eater
(How Victory Is Found In Filth-Reveling)
--fortunate hazel
i live in a lot of tossed rocks
it's a house-cave, it smells like me
in my hands are rabbit skins
and what had been in those skins
was dribbling down my chin
I wiped my swollen red nose
and screamed out "I win!" (an owl-shout)
"I can! I can and I win!"
i spit out bits of shit and within,
little bits of spittle,
i've bit bullets and scarred kettles
i have great mettle and worth
those great little bits of spittle though,
say-spray that carries my message
of messes and pellets away to other noses
that's what i love on my lips,
i like to taste the worthless dirt and spit
it's in my nose, and who knows where it's been?
owl-carried, all-worried and old,
I don't care, I've been there,
whatever it is that sicks up the spit up,
I've been there and seen it- so shut up.
I'm screaming what I've been dreaming,
bits of lung, stringy bits from coughing fits,
they come too, i'm giving you a real
piece of my mind you can squeeze it and feel me
you can smell me you can see what i see
with your nose who knows? ya might like it.
just don't try and fight it at all.
I got the "40" solution, I'm a forty-hag
I've got a rabbitskin bag full of filterless fags
I don't care about my lungs, they can't be
as black as the things i see flying in my house
that ain't no mouse, miss, it's a bat
you'll know the mice, they're the size of cats
i name them all as i kill them off...
You could get "40," maybe tomorrow
I worked through the sorrow, raked my skin with it
i drew blood and drew answers from it, in it
now the wisdom of the ages is within my skin,
read my scars, out here under the stars,
dermal learning, red astrology and your future's there
read it, when you're done, i'll hit you.
earth-missed and scooped mist of spit: a worth-fist.
I grew wrinkles and hair-grey for you,
Worked up 24 years in 24 hours, life in a day,
I like it this way, teeth are for the weak
Who needs teeth? I've got some in my gums,
I save 'em for special occasions, not to eat,
But to spit at kids, bloody and yellow-weak.
I'm an infinite "40," I could be you soon.
I have a wall of disgust surround me,
When I'm sicker and my nose is even bigger,
I spit out shit and lick it thicker
I will it to spin, spraying spit from within,
Wrap it around me at night and stay warm,
Lie on it in the sun, and feel warm even in cold wind,
I've got my wall, i trust disgust initmately,
And I wanna know, how thick is your skin, miss?
All the little girls and boys have to hug me
They want to hug some cotton-thing, some huggy-bear,
But they have to hug me and I hug to scare,
Mom don't know that I release teeth, or the age i wear
Mom don't know that I don't care, she ain't "40"
She don't know the first word of this world, but I do.
Each of my grey hairs stands fer "I been there"
And the ones on my chin, each stand fer "I win!"
The young'ns run, and I scream out after 'um
"I can! I can and I win!"
And it's an owl-cry, a 40-yell.
But that Mom's been told that I'm wise,
So she sends her kids to break my disguise, my filth-wall,
She's never tried at all, she's never been small
Sends her kids where she won't tread, incredibly deadly lady
She'll never get "40" either, kid or "40"
She's neither, just a big tunnel of lies,
Her kids are numbered fucks that fly,
Come shooting shouting out of this tunnel of lies,
She gots husbands that are numbered guys
The ties that bind her life are lies,
But Mom wants her kids to learn from ME, so it goes:
I shout out "I can! I can and I win!"
And it's an owl-cry, a 40-yell.
Later I shout again, and kill some goats
My "40" came early, your "40" could come,
Everybody's got some, and some succomb to it
I did I've been, and I got through it.
Life is better than I ever knew it:
If that only dreams were clean, i'll argue with you still:
So give me a cheer for each "40th" year:
"I've seen it!"
"I've been there!"
and "I don't care!"
"I can! I can and I win!" said 40 by 40 by 40 again
So I'm rolled up in my filth-rug,
My spit is a drug, my hair is bugged,
Silver hairs and silver fish mixed
My gums are healed, my lungs are fixed
So I dig a hole and sit in it
Life is in it, and life within it...
It's great, it's a dirt-eater's heaven
It's paradise, black honey and bugs...
Can't beat it, can't see it from where you are up there
But don't worry, you needn't look far-fer
Everyone, he or she, can fall "40" in a fast flash
No matter how you try and shake it,
Polish mud to try and fake it, trash queen,
Crowned king of the underground...
You'll live it, you won't care that you've been there,
and you'll have won... so with that, I'm done.
Lastly, nasty and laughingly, I screamed out my dream:
"I could... I could, and I did!"
And it was an owl-cry, a 40-yell.
-----------------------
SoulFAQ
--compiled by homer the brave
soul n.
1. The animating and vital principle in human beings, credited with the
faculties of thought, action, and emotion and often conceived as an
immaterial entity.
2. The spiritual nature of human beings, regarded as immortal,
separable from the body at death, and susceptible to happiness or
misery in a future state.
3. The disembodied spirit of a dead human being; a shade.
4. Soul. Christian Science. God.
5. A human being.
6. The central or integral part; the vital core.
7. A person considered as the perfect embodiment of an intangible
quality; a personification.
8. A person's emotional or moral nature.
9. A sense of ethnic pride among Black people and especially
African-Americans, expressed in areas such as language, social customs,
religion, and music.
10. A strong, deeply felt emotion conveyed by a speaker, a performer,
or an artist.
11. Soul music.
---American Heritage Dictionary
We're here to ask questions. At least, someone once said that we are.
I'm inclined to believe that's true, since I spent a lot of time asking
people some questions about their souls. Not that I was envious, mind
you; I like my own soul quite a bit, even if I don't believe it
actually exists.
The idea here was to find out the opinions of a diverse group of
people on the topic of the soul. Unfortunately, none of the Christians
I sent e-mail to have yet responded, so I will have to proceed without
their answers. I say this to let you know I'm not theologically
biased... They just didn't answer.
I've put the answers in random order so you can't tell who gave what
answer.. I'm so sneaky!
'Soul' is:
a) an eternal and essential part of one that will outlive one's body
b) a segment of one's personality that allows one to sing the blues
effectively
c) a metaphor which humans use to somehow attempt to better understand
themselves
d) a pile of crap
e) other (please explain: ____________)
[bonus points if your answer is e]
Sorry...I'll live without my bonus points and say: all
and/or none of the above.
E: The Soul is an amalgam of an individual's personality
and supernatural characteristics. It is not always confined
by the shape of the human body, and under many
circumstances will survive it's destruction for an
indefinite period.
a and e. I veiw the soul as the eighth and ninth
conciousness. Karma and Buddahood.
An idea that allows us to pretend that we're not really
going to die.
Sorry I don't like any of these choices. My definition of
soul is that which cannot be seen, smelled, felt, or
experienced, but there are alot of people who are really
interested in it!
e - That word that proceeds Train in one of the longest
running music variety shows on T.V. Everyone knows that the
only reality is T.V. reality!
e - I believe that, while 'a' is essentially true, that
definition doesn't go far enough. Craftworkers say that
when someone creates a 'work of art,' the creator puts some
of himself into it. So it is - I believe - with people (and
with nature, for that matter). I believe that what we think
of as 'soul' or 'spirit' is that 'spark of divinity' which
is connected to the Creator of All Things. And - being
isolated, separated parts of the Divine - we are driven
through our many lifetimes to seek to rejoin the Divine.
What makes you think there are such things as soul(s)?
Besides Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, Detroit Emeralds, the
eternal spinning axis-eye, Jackie Wilson and Shugie Otis
(sort of) ?
Nothing. I appreciate the use of the word "soul" as poetic
metaphor, but most of what I would mean by the word I would
prefer to call ego. That way, I exchange a lot of
metaphysical baggage for psychoanalytic baggage, which is
not ideal, but is an overall improvement.
My practice of magick; visionary experiences of various
sorts. Intuition. I also find a scientific explanation of
self-awareness and consciousness to be unconvincing and
fragmented.
Well, since I believe that you live over and over again,
there has to be something that goes on to the next life.
Therefore there has to be a soul.
I dunno, really. Just a feeling, I guess. No, scratch that.
The `feeling' is what tells me that my soul exists.
Something animates and motivates us and - for lack of a
better term - I believe that it is our "soul." There are
too many documented cases of Near Death Experiences and
reincarnation (see Stevenson, _20 Cases Strongly Suggestive
of Reincarnation_ [I believe that's the title]) not to
believe that there is something which is our consciousness
and which leaves the body at death and - at least sometimes -
enters into the body of a newborn child.
How tangible must a soul be for it to exist?
What an odd question. I recognize the existence of many
intangible things.
What do you mean by "tangible". Under normal circumstances,
I'd imagine that it could only be intuited, not measured.
As tangible as Buddahood.
How tangible does one have to be? AS TANGIBLE AS A FUCKING
MOUNTAIN! Souls don't fade in and out of existence like
some bad sci-fi movie hologram. It was a human soul that
spoke through Martin Luther King's lips when he told the
world of his dreams. It was holding the pickaxe that felled
the Berlin wall. The real question is whether or not the
lump of flesh sitting on the other end of the computer is
real, not the soul.
It is said that upon death, the human body loses excactly
one gram of weight. (Yet it seems heavier...the "dead
weight" effect. Of course I can't prove this, so it may
very well be bullshit.)
It must be at least as tangleble as kite string. If you
can't tie it in a knot, then what good is it. If you don't
understand, just ask Charlie Brown.
How tangible must electricity or gravitation be to exist?
Is the humorous nature of the following typo mere coincidence: 'assoul'?
Is the coincidental nature of the following typo mere
humor: 'assoul'?
IF this had come from anyone else, I would say that it was
a coincidence, but coming from you...;-)
I don't know. I'd rather contemplate my navel.
Mostly.
Uh, yeah.
I have no idea what this question was because I messed up
and erased part of it.
Where is the soul located?
It's around. It's especially around things which are round.
It moves around. Sometimes mine is in my penis, sometimes
it vainly seeks admission to other people's heads.
Sometimes it casts loose entirely, and roves the planes of
Aristotelian essence, or the infinite worlds of If, or
Erewhon, Xanadu, Shangri-La, or the far Centaurus suns.
Sometimes it strikes beyond the farthest limits of human
thought, to lie gasping like a lungfish on a trackless
alien beach, ten leagues beyond the wide world's end.
Usually, though, it's about three inches behind my
eyes, and doing nothing in particular.
In the alaya consiousness.
The soul is located in whatever part of the person that is
involved in action. The soul is the action. The soul can
reside the the engine of a race car, the wings of an
airplane, or in the wires of a computer. A soul cannot sit
behind a television set. Where do you keep yours?
Either in a diamond in a bound chest in the larder of the
palace of the Queen of the Sea, or in a shiny new dumpster
in Weehawken, NJ. Mystical Judaism believes that the soul
is contained in a minute and indestructable fragment of
bone from the spine, which will act as a seed to regrow the
human body on the day of ressurection.
Where is the soul located? Right here.
LONGITUDE 45 degrees, 24 minutes; LATITUDE 22 degrees, 4
minutes. Look for the big rock. fifteen steps to the north.
X marks the spot.
A cat is curled up on my lap.
How can one find evidence of the soul's existence?
Define it, and maybe you'll know where to look. It's not
a problem for me.
Take a 10" hairpin and insert it to it's full length into
one's right eye. Repeat as necessary. ("Hey, it works!"
<thud!>)
Near Death Experiences, for one.
Check for a pulse.
Look around here, at this place. Is it just a BBS anymore?
Would it still be the same if we all left and were replaced
by random strangers using the same handles? It is this
collection of souls that makes this place.
Allow me to refer you to the "blues" section at your local
record store.
Given that there are many interpretations of the whys and wheretofores
of the soul, how can I choose which one is correct?
Try to find what systems of belief you are comfortable with
have to say about such. Then compare them and see what they
have in common.
Listen to the teaching that makes the most sense.
For this, I say that you must look to yourself and have
luck. Everything I know, a little bird told me.
I would try the Magic 8-ball. It is more accurate than
flipping a coin, but not as good as the ouija board!
Assume that all are correct and that all are incorrect.
"None of Thee Above."
How are 'souls' connected with 'angels?'
Ethernet. Actually, I consider angels to be a lot less
interesting idea.
I believe that Nature Spirits are the genuis loci of the
physical world; and Angels, Dragons and similar creatures
are the genius loci of other worlds.
Through a mistaken perception.
With a rubber band??
Compare/contrast 'soul' with 'spirit'... Are they the same thing?
No. Christianity is one of the very few religions that
believe that we only possess a single soul. Though I have
used "soul" thoughout this message, I generally say that a
person's Spirit is composed of a host of Souls, each being
a facet of that person's personality or potential facet.
Not at all the same thing. The soul is the part of you that
never dies, but which carrys on from life to life while the
spirit is the part of you that keeps you sane. Spirit is
more of an emotional trip while the soul is more real.
No. Soul is something that you have if you are cool, spirit
is something you drink when you WANT to be cool
I believe so. I also believe that what the Japanese call
'kame' are also spirits. In fact, you might say that a
spirit is a disincarnate soul
Add anything else you might have to say about souls. What important questions
have been omitted? What are the answers to those questions?
What of those people, and there are millions of them,
who seem to have less personality and "soul" than the
average Lhasa Apso? I think that is so because, paradoxical
as it may sound, they offer less to the anthropomorphizing
sentiment of the observer. The same sentiment which readily
ascribes sentience to cetaceans, trees, imaginary entities,
and even inanimate objects, seems baffled by some of our
fellow men. I think that people choose, and learn, to
literally project a "nobody here" impression.
Also, I believe that souls are made, not born.
Everyone who is content with ignorance, I believe, lives
and exists "less" than they might otherwise.
Soles are good on shoes, they help keep your feet off the
ground. One question I think you left out was can a white
man have soul, and the answer is yes, but only if he dyes
his soul black!
"All God's chilluns have Soul, but only a few can sing the
blues."
I would like to thank the following folks for replying:
At Howl! BBS (713) 862-1415
Echo and Mycroft
At Ikonoclast BBS (713) 721-1538
Palinurus and The Mighty Sexgod!
At The Familiar Spirit BBS (201) 837-5914
Clifford Low and Ken Pastore
-----------------------
shallow drowned
--adonis nothing
so there it is it is all like this and in the end it doesn't
matter broken open clouds rain falls down we are shallow drowned
in deep blue water far black sky the voices asking why try to
move now everything is comfortable everything is senseless dust
breathe the hate arrive too late strapped down opened wide
robbed of the whole the burning coal cooled by words soothed by
the touch breath of a girl for all the world like a madman a
sadman visitations not few see the world with the sandman view
is it true what is said was it red and blue and black take it
back stop it all melt into the room and follow slowly knowing
growing wide eyed little girl twirl twisting ends bends turns in
circles fall to the ground found it is softer there where the
waiting lies denies that it ever was because it is hard to
justify give a reason why try the shadowlands woman hands
grasping heart pull strings dance puppet boy precious thing
sprout wings fly join the gril in the sky swallow water it grows
nigh the next life no strife bundle up fellings kneeling in tall
grass moon will guide hide keeping from the sun run fast full
mast ship sails oceans wide seven not so many as eleven magic
numbers that exist making with the luna face a tryst trust not
and fear not spill blood and drink do not think cut charred made
hard angels hair girl breath soft warm death a marker for places
once been do not drown swallow this blue and breath...
-----------------------
Boxcar-pawns take good words for granted
--sentry
The Good Word rises and falls with
faces and discarded jerseys in back-alleys
and bridges
Despicable rise and fall and piles of
zines in the back room with honey
and feathers
Why, in the streets without homes and smiling
we walk past, the wounded
silently stride past us, wounded.
Who, across the street in silence
smokes, red-orange without a face,
pools of rainwater extinguish traces
Shattering with rise and fall
and forgiven failings, red-orange, without a face.
broken-down pink Volkswagons flailing in high seas.
You shatter with it.
glass and playing cards in high winds-
their screaming is plain and muted.
-----------------------
so-so-so
--fortunate hazel
the bottles are like bags in the attic,
thick bags like old books are thick, sticky with dust,
held together by a long line of time, time-twine,
and that you disturb this, you time-unravel travelling,
those bags in the attic are full of letters,
still as words in print except when read hints of things,
things (living) in the past that didn't last, love letters.
long lost love letters, that would better be burned to
heat up some butter, so your toast will taste better,
rather than reading them until your heart is bitter,
heat that butter up instead of bringing up that
old cracked loving cup, held up in a toast that
said forever but soured away muttering lust, lust
too much lust but not enough love, and there it was.
how many bottles count up this way, up into a wall?
an apartment attic, one long tragic second story,
we all had pasts that were plaster in the wall,
all of us are a part of it, memory-made thickest bricks,
our tricks came back a-tricked us, slipped between us
during the fuss and the rush of the days gone by,
and today, you ding-a-ling, brings us up to snuff.
i've written things that i haven't lived,
it's the only nobility that i can afford, fiction
here the soil is barren and the oiled bearings are failing,
binding and flaking with rust, red rust,
bad blood from a dying dream machine, dirty so dirty.
-----------------------
The Year 2000
--maeve the magnificent
The year 2000 is coming...
STOP.
here.
stop
the future.
stop now.
Stop
the past.
Every month 1500 women die,
slain by men they know.
stop.
When I was fifteen I wore black
I liked the sex pistols and wrote bad poetry.
They said I was rebllious.
I was.
They said i was depressed
I have been.
They said I'dl get over it.
Not yet.
If I was fifteen today, my parents might put me in a mental facility.
They might send me to a psychiatrist who might medicate me
Zoloft
Ridillin
or something new and better
Something to make me active
less depressed
help me focus
smile when I go to my boring job
boring school
something to help me forget my troubles
or at least accept them.
Stop the future.
middle class white men gather together perform
rituals stolen from Native Americans
they learn to bond
have their feelings,
be in touch with their rage
to take young men under their wings
and prepare for manhood.
They work for oil companies
mining companies
cattle markets
the rapists of Native soil
They pay $200 a plate to sponsor
Robert Bly
to keep their council afloat
They quote Camille Paglia
"Feminists are whining bitches"
Stop the Past.
Revolutionary Communists hand me a pamphlet,
this was before protesting at the 92 Rebulican National convention
It told me how to keep silent should I be arrested
To keep only my name fresh on my lips
It reads like the pamphlet the AF gave me before deployment
should I get caught by the enemy
Airman Johnson
457-13-2266
USAF
Stop.
stop.
STOP.
I tell my sister the lawyers wife it's her life i
fear for
should the riots come
the revolution start
I am proletariat
i say
Proud
and ashamed
of my whiteness
the privelage we shared growing up
It's you, I say who will be taken into the street
and shot.
i know this is true.
like i know if I'm not,
I'll be sent away
locked up
or killed
when the federal police
sanctioned by Congress
(100,000 in the next year)
storm my home...
or my white womans nightmare
My house broken into by angry black men
raped
tortured
"Stupid white bitch"
Carefully programmed
before I could say the word,
"rebellion"
or 'oppression'
Stop the future, No drug can fix us
Stop the past, half remembered rites and prayers, stolen cannot fix this
Stop
war cannot
stop
rebellion cannot
stop
hate cannot stop
God cannot stop
Christ cannot stop
The year 2000 is coming
Stop.
Reference in New Issue Copy Permalink