663 lines
19 KiB
Plaintext
663 lines
19 KiB
Plaintext
BENJAMIN HENRY <BH4781%ALBNYVMS.bitnet@UACSC2.ALBANY.EDU>
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****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
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****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
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I am pleased to present to you the first virtual copy of inter\face,
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a magazine published at the University at Albany as an efforto to
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provide an open "forum" for the publication and distribution of creative
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work. inter\face is a private venture, and we are open to comments,
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suggestions, and submissions. E-Mail to bh4781@albnyvms via bitnet or
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bh4781@rachel.albany.edu via the internet. **** We hope you enjoy this.
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Please forward, mail, print, send and/or distribute this document freely.
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****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
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Nancy Dunlop
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with doors the woods would not
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be woods where they end
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not always knowing
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the knocking the interlocked
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branches
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a question is
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permission a soft
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field cricket
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under your finger
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branches
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locking across your palm
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edged by corn stalk sounds
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in wind i am you
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soft
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cricket singing
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the lock of us
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wielding (song) too solid
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to fully compass
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a rock
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permitting entry to pressure
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moss on its smooth
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surface no branches
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she is confused when she is
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that small cricket her legs
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rubbing not knowing
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beyond grass stalks or what
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makes green
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heat or day light
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a smooth surface
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to press against (like) a rock
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with no fissures to rest
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in she is out
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in blue air under the sun she is afraid
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(to call attention) and yet
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cannot
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stop
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she is double-natured wanting solid
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in a green field soft
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(as) grass filtered through wind
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(to call attention) and yet
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cannot
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stop
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she is double-natured wanting solid
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in a green field soft
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(as) grass filtered through wind
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(above written with Sam Turner and Charles
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Straney--nd)
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F-R-E-E-D-O-M-C-O-M-P-U-T-E-R
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--an invocation to the
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Techno-Muse
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Your screen is a stretch of beach. Words are
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shell-fragments, crunching under the hammer of
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your fingers.
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* * *
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Your screen is the night-time woods, your hands
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small animals foraging in the brush.
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* * *
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Your screen is still water. A school of fish
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effervesce its glassy depths.
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* * *
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Your keys are the bones of a thousand dead. Your
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fingers are souls dancing happily upon them.
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* * *
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Your screen is the inner curve of a skull, the
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capsules of stored sensations propel themselves
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within its amber caverns.
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* * *
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Your screen is an open plain. Numberless wild
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horses thunder out of the hills toward your face.
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* * *
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Your screen is thickening smoke. Your fingers are
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flames lapping the smouldering keys.
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* * *
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Your screen is a rib cage, and you are the heart
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beating and echoing within its chamber.
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* * *
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Your screen is a holy temple, your hands the
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worshippers at its portals.
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* * *
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Your screen is an open sky over a field. You are a
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kestrel cutting through it on sharpened wings, and
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its prey panicked in the grass below.
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* * *
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Your screen is the eye of heaven. Angels scale its
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margins. Their wings sweep against the keys like
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beatitudes. You are one of their company.
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* * *
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Technogram:
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ALCHEMY POSSIBLE EVERY MOMENT STOP VERBAL GODHEAD
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TO MANIFEST ANYTIME STOP PURSUE WITH FULLEST HEART
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NEVER STOP
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Eros Rising
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tell me again how we met, rows
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of brownstones, boxes, a tracking of wires
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in smoulder-light. you are my
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musec. i want
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to give you postcards, a small
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pair of party gloves. a scarf. a scroll. this ring
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of keys.
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take my hand, isis-drop
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part my poor seas. tonight
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there it all was, spilled
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like treasure from the envelope.
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the singer i know
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opens his mouth. when the angels
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hear his song, they stop
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their dancing. dance for all my lilies.
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how did we meet again?
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you are sky sounds. imprint
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of wings flapping ground level
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who are you today?
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it's as if the whole world
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were his thigh and i could just
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clasp it. tongue my way over
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its surface. it's cream
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for this parched throat.
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it's delicious and unfurls me
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in hillocks and smooth streams. careening. ow. ow.
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it readies me for its own taking.
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Stefano Resta
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The Procession
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Slap-lizzard tattoo neck in the opening rose!
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These palms are psychic and the lines that streak
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across them are nothing but human. Metallic
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strips of leather becomes the singular feather, a
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simple fetish, in contemporary American heritage.
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March, marching, movement in D major somewhat
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allegria...the Procession! Shopping carts,
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pioneers, expansionists, gold-diggers, and
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metaphors. Then the chiggers, and the blue lines
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on yellow paper. Trot, gallup, doorbell. Souls
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chained by the sea. The procession commences!
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Step one, step two, step three. Three step
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waterfalls on Willett Street! The silver flash in
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New York and step one, overlooking apartments.
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Always the flash. Procession of fires.
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Hooks and Cylinders
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I have been thinking about hooks and cylinders and
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Hat Creek skepticism, but nothing could repair the
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chronological order. The word "Seduction" is an
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attempt to answer the contemporaries; the
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hierarchy of Isis and Poseidon (and later Neptune)
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all demand a seaport. So it becomes unfortunate
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that most anglers have a detrimental effect upon
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the stream, a great experience like a fragment of
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a song. At any rate, money is interesting. The
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splendor of stretched sunlight in the afternoon
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rather impressive rather Spanish, Andalusian in
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the rosemary and basil. You may ask: is there
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any original nostalgia? Help restore the
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holiness! Self-defense through creativity from a
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small, persistent canvas. I have been thinking
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about hooks and cylinders and impressions from the
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underwater angels. Wild river through high red
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canyons and thousands of buzzards, circling.
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Palms in the Texture of Wind
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Palms in the texture of wind, a domus, home, or
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interesting book of poems and 3:00 a.m., the talk
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completely still; or am I to be refused in the
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process of grief? The arrows come wearily in
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order to equal the great depressions. Power then,
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whether you be a goddess or tread on a branch in
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the grove. A truly whole humanity, jaguar
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exulting in victory, the highlands blazing, white
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hair drying up. This shapes complicated
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demarcations and suppressed memory. Lucky to have
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suffered the wounds, groaning in unrecognized
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devotion. O blood sheltering tree, the sun has
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fallen and the shores pronounce a specific hue of
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green and the leaves have frozen to stone. Allay
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the mango, the totem. My pocket is filled with
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plans so to meet would suggest language dressed
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completely in memoirs or memories, simply
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deceptive. Besides, this is merely personal, a
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chaotic variation of form deciphered by the
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morning light. This was an Egyptian statue and
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the passage now is loaded with common faults.
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The Moon-Room
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To mention something simple: saffron or abysmally
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approaching twilight, one or two artists hope
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there is a foundation of Truth. Damn it all! The
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mood spoiled into sensual flowers, fixed,
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obsessive; or love incarnated resembling that
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Mendocino Coast or that similar important
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struggle. Transparencies belong to the river, the
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body only in part a river: in part fire flesh
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bone voice. My heart is all stained with
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blackberries. Random insecurities; imperfections
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gleam. Tromos, or a sudden trembling. The tides
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rise and below us wide stingrays forage. My
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selective desire is to be standing in a slate of
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rain or flanked by waves. Simplicity has gotten
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all tangled up in vitreous perceptions. My hands
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wish your mysterious mouth to body, Eros ablaze,
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the moon-room ablaze, your clitoris molten lava.
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The ceremony grows green, fills the air as the
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daughters are changed into vines though it sounds
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past belief. All night long the sea absorbs
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ghosts and sings in discordant harmonies.
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People (self?)
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People (self?) out of touch with time or meteor
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showers after the moon in October. Animal. Cold
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under the maples; leaves burning red through a
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crisp air. A return to splitting wood and tugging
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our donkey through the soccer field. Flight in
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the sun of lavender robes. The difficulty is in
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the hurry. The bark of a dog. If I walk with you
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on this beach sand, will the columns of rock fall?
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Where is the monastery? The light is covered in
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footsteps. But we were speaking of Canada, and
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Oregon, where the rock of columns stand. And one
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of the seven streams. How long, how meditative
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must it disturb, or a Buddha on a photo. The holy
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men are out in force beneath a blazing sky. And
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the rock-fish has bloody gills from the jabs of
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spear. I always seem to return to a similar
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place, out place, out of touch with time. Flash.
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Benjamin Henry
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My Sister's House
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I sit on the couch in my
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sister's living room and realize:
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she is still six years older than me,
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weaned from my parents earlier,
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some mistakes they'll never make again
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my mother thinks as
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she plans my future and
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asks me what I want to do
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with my life and what will
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make me happy and all the responsibilities
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I have to make and pay for
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and plan for and look forward to
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what?
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What lies ahead of tomorrow
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in a society I alienate myself from
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I know because it tries so damn hard
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to take me in and make me happy
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and rich but all I can see
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is ambivalence and ignorance and I know
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that they are just words and
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I make myself unhappy
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with these thoughts that come from
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who knows where, maybe something
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bad from the Bible or that
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Rock Music dope dealing Pink Floyd
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kids that will ruin this country
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and everything it is and stands for
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our children to grow up and appreciate
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is all ruined because these damn kids
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go out and look and see
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what is really there,
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even though our every day
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practiced have a nice days,
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now who could beat that?
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Even the glorious technology,
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a gift from the brilliant minds
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of Our Generation put to waste
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by troublemakers and perverts and MTV --
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long-haired lunatics taking up too
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much time between Our commercials
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that clearly show them how life
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should really be, let's forget
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the pornography of Christ in Piss
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and homosexuality and marijuana
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because we know it's wrong --
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how can we call that art
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when America is really Norman Rockwell,
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-- I know it's true it was
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never that way when I was young.
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A college kid on state
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financial-aid,
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I sleep in a bunked bed
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and look out a window
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at carefully manicured lawns
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and stone fences and rows
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of cars and buildings being
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built and potholes in roads
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fixed and a recycled garbage
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dumpster.
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Is this America, I ask;
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it must be it says on the map
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and the tv that sits in the corner:
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I watched Dan Rather for five years
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every night he told me America
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was something else, like
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Miami Vice and Tom Sellek
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with guns and sports cars
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racing in paradise.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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The window glow yellow from streetlamps
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casting shadowed squares on her
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glass coffee table;
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I fall asleep
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in my sister's foreign home.
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GARBAGE MENDING WAYS:
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repeated the salesman
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"I will believe you!" apologetically
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wavering,
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alphabetically,
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numerical order
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is the way they go
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sorted into the social
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infra/structure-
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meandering vs.
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the totalitarian!
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(he's back)
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hiding behind his pillow shoes
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moved to show emotion
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wavering under all cost
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ingesting a steady diet of gelatin/
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insulin,
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melting way in the fabric pot,
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migration south for the mean-time,
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leaving behind the Greyhound station
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(through a portal)
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he sees
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dry land
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a vision
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counteracted by none
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I am lost in the iron-ore,
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smelting,
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sifting,
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sand-
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shifting
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away.
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Katie Yates
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^
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1.
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Dark far thought Clasps Daisy root in response to
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terror of terror unseen alone & not habitual how
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to build Wither drowsy from the outset seen of
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night: thought Terror built of child structure
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such as the purpose: to do. The children learn
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that sorrow that mathematics of utter generality
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and common knowledge e.g. lyric vocabulary of
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"perishability" that one carries far. Hither.
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Drowsy. Not repeatable, World falsehood. I do
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not believe - having explored the question e.g.
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breakdown the structure terror of earth end
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unseen. Just Night Vigil. Such as one's
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singular. End unseen. In the rhyme of how one
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must live the first question alone in the shelter
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of bees. This may be the time. Where she
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addresses world deeply at odds in a letter to
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Andrew. Susan West. Pattern in sleep. Not
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repeatable. One learns falsehood, knowledge,
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massacre blind. DESTINY. Is practically nil. Is
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talent & frenzy. Formal catastrophe. Menacing
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question. Rhyme or their anarchist forms. Or
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moral thought. This may be the Time for the
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perishability of ancient beauty, of Nature.
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Formal memory. Nil purpose to Ancient Beauty.
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Flint. Intact fury. Is literacy. Carrying a
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banner of Truth in the pattern of History.
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What do you know asleap? Am welcome drifting to
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operate mystery computers. Pierce how to live as
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a bride Oh welcome repetition of requirements of
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my Seagray ~
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2.
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Carved out of a monotheistic god.
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Welcome
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O
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distant sorcerer
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dim 99aC ^miracle or
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hissing together bent on itself, bent
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to the Northwind bent to where she
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turns into seagray phase shift perhaps
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cancerous obedience shall approach
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love eros even more hissing
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pausing to repress and countless father
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can sacrifice northwind proud
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secrets hissing to gather
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loneliness
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asleap
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in exploitation
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"how to die" how together?
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how lyric how manifest how poison how hid how to
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access knowledge in this desire to land mobile
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compensation gesture of the jongleur to expound
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or are we just speaking in High Middle habits
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this having to run home this afternoon this squall
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the whole idea of another genius be/side you
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managing to hold night pastures seem hostile to
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occupy their dichotomies as the proper ambition is
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to sit hour out - The Rules of the Disciple even
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the murmuria for her sake & others for life itself
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deemed balanced the species ego wheat straws out
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of so awkward to love faceStone face reaching into
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it trying to pull apart the efficacy
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3.
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So knell to their own ends
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drowned dust prospective attatched
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to conventionality. On the open
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telling Self resurrection and Anti-self.
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Such a comparison - alone and alone smile statue
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was mostly double talk by academic wing flapping
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bright ship Bright drown-ed ship. Mirror for
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Nature for sake her. Studied, he showeth so much
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of my face Stone like a woman accursed, accused in
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the Fall. Remembering attackers. Keepeth us
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rebelling. Divide. Conventionally. Sun
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alightingso awkward her sentence Alone and haste
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to calme the Word. Lost work in pastoral freedom
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and strawboy. From all the evil. Old uneven
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sunbite. Fair my head. "Exile." Like magic.
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See the Nightingale. Lie no accident. Vague
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revolt. Round the fire. Lie. Elopement of hills.
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Himself to the object. Going (sometime both)
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(mummer) This experience of bed down the birds.
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Ensnare & scatter the ravens. Shivering.
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A gain into empty interior. Himself eaten by
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poet. Creator. Downwoods. Held on to craft.
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Vague north in one's mouth. Three times is
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murder. Thrown. Sometime indignant.
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Scattering streams of written. Traces. Of
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necessity. Woods. Never complete. Nameless
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threshold. Nameless sleep. Making of. Scatter.
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Records of Conquerors. Inward. Of course a raw
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non-place. The pure signification. Secret of
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half of my face. In excess of the technology
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which depends upon the moral fathers. The watery
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ebb of pure knowledge. Of high virtue itself.
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Shell. Fragment of Liquidation introduce
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Aesthetics. A raw, beautiful case of Stella. No
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longer. The humble Angel of proposed marriage.
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Attributed to beautiful phrases. Exchanged.
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Frozen in the spiritual. Illegitimate. As for
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Patrick's bird.
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Travels
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Will be k unable to fly after
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Accurate. Yes. If he be willing.
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The Most Fascinating freedom.
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We study the murmuring. Skepticism.
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Churchyard of criticism
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Mouth of river
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Famine wisdom.
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Inlet task
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Liberties unperceived. Language with treachery.
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Aura.
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Inlet
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system
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measuring
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^ this is a part of my response to D. Byrd's
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Manifesto: Culture War mediated through S. Howe's
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poem Defenestration of Prague
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Inter\face is:
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*Inter\face 3 is a publication of
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poetry, what we take that to be in
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relationship to our investment in
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the fact that the word is not so
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much written down now as it is down
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loaded or it exists momentarily
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between cursors late in the night's
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impermanent cybermind.(ky)
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*Cyberspace has been termed a new
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"frontier" by many, a new space that
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needs to be explored and mapped. We
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offer a collection of perspectives
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on this viewpoint, a way to look at
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the net, at life, incorporating
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technology and humanity.
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(bh)
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*i am in my new sweater. i am at a
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keyboard. sometimes this small
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corpus imprisons sometimes offers
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|
new rooms. the screen to me is a
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|
room. a series of quiet
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|
conversations late at nite or early
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|
a.m. sometimes it becomes easier to
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read screen words than book words.
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to watch them float toward you from
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ephermeral agitation.(nd)
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*We're not anti-intellectual.
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|
*We do promote: the letter press,
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|
the etching, the lithograph (old) &
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laborious (body) printing processes
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|
*We have to acknowledge the
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|
limitations of thoughts so finely
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|
stored in their (material) casings
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|
that they don't make it out into the
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|
late twentieth century.
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|
*I want to talk ie. there is a place
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|
to talk - seemingly an a crest of
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|
"spontaneous prosody" that is much in
|
|
the keeping with a tradition of
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|
lyrical poetry which seeks to define,
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|
to glorify, to tell, to heighten,
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|
to worship, to soothe, to pray,
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|
to gather the strength we have
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|
left to care - gather in the words ---
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|
*Words, language, data stream: we
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|
encounter these things daily, accept
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|
them or reject them. This is an
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|
offering, a contribution, a step
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|
toward our ever-changing, temporary
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|
definition. We encompass and gather
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|
and collect to present. (bh)
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*we are seeing new meanings course
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|
from curser light. we are learning
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|
each day to speak in this new
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vision-voice. (nd)
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****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
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Thank you for reading the first virtual copy of inter\face, a magazine
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published at the University at Albany as an effort to provide an open
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"forum" for the publication and distribution of creative work.
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inter\face is a private venture and we are open to comments,
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|
suggestions, and submissions. E-Mail to bh4781@albnyvms via bitnet or
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bh4781@rachel.albany.edu via the internet. We hope you enjoyed this.
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****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
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