642 lines
24 KiB
Plaintext
642 lines
24 KiB
Plaintext
p T A M e R S H R e W ... vol. 3
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¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿
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¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿
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¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿
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¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿
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¿¿¿ ..edited, compiled, prelimanarily perused,
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¿¿¿ felt up, jostled and spell checked by,
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Stretch
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/-----------------------------------------------------------------------\
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\-----------------------------------------------------------------------/
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T A M e R S H R e W ... the Third
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Being a most rightious 'lil 'zine
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Handling phillips head screw drivers around the World!
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Tinkering with strange and obscure drugs occuring naturally
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in the wooded and less frequented areas of the forest.
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Gushing, Gushing, GUSHING!
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We LOVE a good sized cow patty with NICE form!
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WHOO! YAH! SICK!
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And YOU TOO can be an intergral part of the
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festivities!
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Submissions: HoWL BBS 862.1415
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/-----------------------------------------------------------------------\
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\-----------------------------------------------------------------------/
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Speed of Thought ... a farewell of sorts.
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Xann,
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Peace, bro ... you know, if anything, the greatest reward has been
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to see those two words echoed so emphatically since HoWL went up
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a couple, few, who remembers anyway? years ago. Yeah, bro ...
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peace.
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You, my friend, have *grown*. I really regret not saving those old
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backups of Howl from two years ago ... if only to compare and
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contrast some of your posts. Shit man, I remember the first day
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you logged on, something about "I'm here ... computer crime is in
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my future, hook me up with some people in the KNOW!" Hahah.
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Beautiful. And you dug the HOWL PHILOSOPHY bulletin I had up ...
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that felt good. I think it was the first time someone had actually
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shown appreciation for the work and feeling I'd put into the board.
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There's been many more True Believers(tm) since then, but you were the
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first that I can remember.
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Shit, at the time I don't think either of us knew what this whole
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deal would come to mean to the both of us, ... what it means now.
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Ya know? Sure, we *wanted* to know ... and we were looking ... and
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even now I think we're just scratching the surface, but the fact
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remains ... In a world of often bland cyber-thought, we've managed
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to (with the help of some really beautiful people) build a bit of
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meaning(?) and creativity in the void. I feel a really intense sense
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of brotherhood with you on this level, bro ... thanks.
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Your off to Michigan in a week or so. I'll miss you. I'll miss
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Lovers. If ever a piece of someone left with that body as it
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travelled to a new place, a piece of me goes with you to Michigan.
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But I also know that physical distance really doesn't mean shit to
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folks that operate at the speed of thought, anyway. Heh. So fuck
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the miles, the distance. It's not real. We'll be here, we'll be
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there. You'll be there, you'll be here. There's some that would
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say that we're everywhere at once, anyway, ... so what the fuck,
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eh? Peace, bro... High speed into darkness...
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Stretch
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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
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< Words Available for Immediate Fondling >
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\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
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1> ... "The Excommunication of God" (xann)
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2> ... "Just a Moment" (propain)
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3> ... "Tales of the Net II" (watchman t'ong)
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4> ... "Twelve Ways to Shed Light on YOUR Reality" (stretch)
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5> ... "Jewel" (xann)
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6> ... "Digital Delirium" (propain)
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7> ... "Shaken" (stretch)
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8> ... "Grand My" (xann)
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9> ... "In the Great Tradition of Whitman" (stretch
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10> ... "Scarecrow" (xann)
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11> ... "See Flying Beauty" (homer the brave)
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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
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< >
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\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
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The Excommunication of God
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once upon a time, the Second God, being the creator of the universe
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and all that is holy, approached the vatican walking tall.
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and after much screening, searching, and questioning at the pearly
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gates the second god was allowed to enter, and visit the only being
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in the entire universe above him, that being the First god; the
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preserver of the church, the master of the house, the giver of
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indulgences.
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[indulgences, for those who dont know, were <are?> "sin permits"
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given to crusaders, knights of the church, and those who donated
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lots of money to the church long ago. this practice is no longer
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part of the Kingdom, however]
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now, the first god liked the second god a lot, although his
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survival did not depend on the Him. after all, it was He who had
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first breathed life into the kingdom. and as the second god stepped
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into the confession booth, a loving, fatherly smile appeared on the
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face of the first god.
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"forgive me, father, for i have for years now done things pleasing
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in yo sight."
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"alas, you are only inhuman, my child. speak, and be forgiven."
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"hold on a moment, i have a list here....ok. well, first, it has
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taken me over three hundred years, but i have at last finished
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sorting my children from the heretics, for All were killed. now
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both sides of the gorge of judgement are nearly full, it seems.
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also, i have...i have desired an indulgence from his holiness..."
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"please, explain, child."
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"well, ive done a lot of good things over the years, you know....i
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created the universe, the church, and i sacrificed my only child to
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save this world from eternal death. im sure there are plenty of
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other things i could think of, if you could just give me a second
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here..."
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"no need, my son. but i am afraid i cannot allow you to be the
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benefactor of an indulgence--"
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"but i wont use it father! no, no, no! i just want to have one.
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just one surely, so many knights, so many bishops, kings,
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monks...is it not fair and just that the creator of all this should
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have at least one?"
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"i see thy point, but you are not man, and you are not yr own. you
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are the all-father, and you belong to the church, my son. and you
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must be perfect or, verily, yr usefulness to yr people will
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diminish!"
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"well, im tired of it! my people! who are you to talk of my
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people?!? useful? HA! if i were of any use to them, this use would
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i have been put to long ago! my people are a minority, not a
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globally spanning flock such as yrs! you can HAVE them, john! ill
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take my people, and you take yrs! and from here on out, i am NOT a
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perfect being! no more stress for me, buddy hand me my time card!"
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"WICKED CHILD! if this insolent behaviour continues, i shall have
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you excommunicated!"
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"blow it out yr beanie!"
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and thusly did god split from the church...
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(xann)
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[*]
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Just a Moment
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For a fleeting moment
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It all makes sense.
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All that you were, are, will be,
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Comes together.
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The universe apologizes
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For being such a shithead
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And making you think
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That there was a reason
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Behind it all.
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The hand of your god
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Comes to you
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Calls you forth
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Slaps your face.
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Your brain steps out
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For a lunch break
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It has earned
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From its years
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Of doing NOTHING.
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Your memories laugh at you.
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Your heart takes a sideways dive.
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Your senses lie.
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A thousand padded drumsticks
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Beat at your head
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Till your bleeding
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From the ears.
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The moment passes.
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(propain)
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[*]
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Tales of the Net ... Part II
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The exploratory probe floated slowly, unseen, several yards above
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the street, and mirrored to it's surroundings on all optical
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wavelengths. No radiation, no power signature, everything passive
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reception. Throughout the night it searched, sensing and following
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the data flows. It was a slow task. But the probe was in no hurry.
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Probes are thorough, and this probe was no exception.
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For days, then weeks, then months it kept at it's task - find the
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storehouse of creativity and learning on this planet.
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It soon identified the elements of the communication matrix.
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Huge hubs switching & routing the data flow, but no life. Noted and
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omitted. Virtual caverns of data and sequences and processes, with
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barely a flicker of creativity or insight. Raw data - lifeless
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sinkholes. Eliminated from the scans. But every now and then, a
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flare of life, radiating into the darkness. Not in the large
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buildings and complexes it expected, but a simple house here, a
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trailer there, inconspicuous dwellings in nondescript places. The
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probe realized that it's analytical functions were too rudimentary
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and unsophisticated for this task. The sorting & analysis would be
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done later by units designed for that.
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On some of the brighter nodes, the probe attempted to unobtrusively
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join the flow, to better assess it's content. It was invariably
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futile. The jargon and mindset were too free and sporadic to
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follow and interact with. But the keywords and signature it was
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programmed to find were there, and it settled down to record.
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"Why...", "If...", "How...", "Suppose..." "I hope..." - the
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concepts flowed, and the probe was content. It's mission would be
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successful after all. The overall content was rising, growing,
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multiplying. Yes, this planet may yet be a success.
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(watchman t'ong)
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[*]
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Twelve Ways To Shed Light On Your Reality
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1. Grow you hair, go downtown at lunch hour, stand atop the nearest
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Mercedez Benz (in platform shoes with gold fish in them) and
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tell the masses how you feel.
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2. If someone annoys you, say, "You annoy me."
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3. Jump off a tall bridge into very cold water.
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4. Ride the electric handicap-cart at Randalls.
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5. Try not eating for three days.
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6. If you ever want to tell your parents to fuck off, tell them to
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fuck off.
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7. If you ever want to tell your parents you love them, tell them
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you love them.
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8. Go climb a very very tall rock.
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9. Pick up a pen.
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10. See fear as a means to an end.
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11. Skydiving.
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12. Throw yourself in front of a really big truck. (this last as
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the most desperate, but also the most effective method of
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realizing your reality).
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(stretch)
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[*]
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Jewel
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believe it or not, i wont eat again. not for a while, at least.
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i tried, earlier, to eat my Standard ration of pork. nearly
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retched. my sustenance has been only a fragrance indigenous to the
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far east, called patchouly. its sweet and frail scent walks with
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me on my favourite green shirt.
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my! how things have changed!
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there are some things for which one must not dare hope. the door to
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disappointment, while it may teach us, is better left closed. and
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when we are the target of things for which we dared not dream, we
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are most surprised, humbled. elated.
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my! how humble am i!
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when i awoke from my blackout, She was still there. knees near the
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right side of my spinning head; face i n c h e s from the right
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side. arms, around stiffened neck. are you my friend? this, after
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a gift i gave; a poem, to read to _____, to soothe and nothing
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more.
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why are you my friend?
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no answer. the next seven hundred and seventy seven years were
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spent talking, playing, betraying inhibitions. lips barely
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touching, as not to break anything in the room. and i am quite
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happy to announce to anyone listening that for those ensuing
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decades i, on my lacerated knees, breathed the air of this queen.
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to her, it was refuse. to me, it was ambrosia.
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o why are you my friend?
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no answer.
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a kiss should be effortless, motionless;
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the pinnacle of peace, be it uneasy or otherwise.
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and it was this.
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(xann)
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[*]
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Digital Delirium
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Psacaline dream
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Of a cobol kiss.
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A simple yes or no.
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Cyberbliss.
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Code tweaked
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Lovingly
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Hatefully
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Boringly
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Into something
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Workably close
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To what you needed
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Some three months ago.
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A phone call.
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A hand shake.
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A letter to a friend.
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A new toy.
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He who carries drops that which he carries.
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A mouse runs feverishly,
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Clicking his mouse-like clicks.
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A click here, two there.
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Lo and behold: more running and clicking to be done.
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Music churns.
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Lines dance.
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Balls flash.
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Some one yells "Turn it down!"
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Pull the plug, pull the plug, pull the plug.
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(propain)
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[*]
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Shaken
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And then I was shaken so terribly by a coughing fit. Bad. Enough to
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leave me raw in the throat ... wanting aspirin, coffee, another
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cigarette--a home remedy of whisky and lemon, something. I'd grown
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impervious (I'd thought) to sickness, being so long in that room,
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alone...sure of health. And the bed always there for sleeping,
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breathing.
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The neighbor lady called three times that day. Something about
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hearing a dog bark the night before. Something about a lock not
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wanting to work right on the back door. Mostly just wanting to
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hear another human voice, I think. Tired. Wrinkled old woman
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whose eyes watered so much and were difficult to look at.
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And of course, it rained. "Plink,...Plink,"...on the air
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conditioner outside. Then a roar as the real rain came down.
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Sheets of wet fell hard for thirty minutes that day. It'd been
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sickeningly hot the past few weeks. No rain. Needless to say, the
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ground was dry thirty after. We need a hurricane, I'd commented a
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few days before. That'd set a few things straight. That'd really
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get things 'a hoppin. Folks just shook their heads.
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They did that a lot, people,...shook their heads I mean. Or
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shuffled their feet, or mumbled under their breath, or looked away.
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Frightened? If so, of what? A new slant on their real? Mine?
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Opinion? What? For once, lady, look at me when you talk to me.
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I'll try to do the same for you. I promise.
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"...and they don't understand that he's been shaken."
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(stretch)
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[*]
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Grand My
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i recognized it more than once on our way home that night:
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the smoking guns destroyed our world
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while piercing skies with ugly red
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the boss n joe were on page one discussing basketball.
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another joke about charlies rolled
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from macho down my way again
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on freeways lined with cabarets and poolhalls lights and cheap motels
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once again my mind was put
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to another penultimate
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...songs and songs and girls and boys they filled me to the top. working
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drones and long walks home and aching muscles stop. co men speak of
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different things days pass in Minds alone. loneliness is welcome
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here. loneliness is home.
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as the last grand tilted to the floor i thought of all my friends and
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!lift! and
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(!breathe) and knew that in this world i truly am alone.
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[and thanked Whomever, god forbid.]
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(xann)
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[*]
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In the Great Tradition of Whitman ... Or Not So.
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In the great tradition of Whitman,
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with his Mannahatta, his masts and masts
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like toothpicks along the docks and
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harbors of New York.
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An old father, that one, Dad,
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Pop, counsellor to the harlots,
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lover of the dirt especially,
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lover of all things detestable
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in man, in woman ...
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I think of walks along the beach
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and trips through the city with
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it's killing scent and the
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impenetrable thick of the wood.
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I think of work and the swinging
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hammer and the heat and the blood
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shed from the brow of a pick axe.
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I remember the wanting and the not
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so wanting, the pushing for the
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know, the remembering.
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(And all of these, of course, being tied up in the soul of
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man and at all times offering their own influence in that
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same mans remembering of his place in the order of things,
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....or not so)
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It is true that he walked that
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beach with it's piles of drift
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and dredge, blind, as it were,
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finding the whole of Mannahatta
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beating life into a small island
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of silt and wash,
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the heart of a city beating
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white and airy in the
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transparent shine of a bubble.
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And upon that bubble, reflecting
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in inverse and forgetting, all
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the poems of all the poets sung
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and unsung.
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(In other words, I dig, and am
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completely DOWN with your groove,
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Dude!)
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(stretch)
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[*]
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Scarecrow
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"to talk about one's self a great deal
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can also be a means of concealing oneself."
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--nietzsche
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nothing more than a scarecrow
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scary indeed!
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knocking at yr door.
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nothing more than straw,
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concealed so well by ragged clothes,
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knocking at yr door.
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stuffings stuffing.
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nothings nothing,
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though so many words are spoken.
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nothing more than a twig
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scary, indeed!
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supporting.
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--this spine; offered long ago
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and though leaves are here and there and mine
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|
this pillar is of you, dearest.
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stuffings may be snuffing
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|
nothing still is nothing.
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|
yr gift it stands both meek and proud,
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|
and it is this that i cling to when the crows are gone.
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nothing more than a scarecrow
|
|
scary indeed!
|
|
knocking at yr door.
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|
nothing more than straw
|
|
bursting from overfilled clothes,
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|
knocking at yr door.
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though my stuffings may be bluffing
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|
i swear i feel as nothing
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|
when my promises are broken.
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(xann)
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[*]
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See Flying Beauty
|
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|
Way back, way back before it was all automated, she would fly
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|
across the sky, looping, shootin' from cloud to cloud. They
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|
automated it later, yeah, but boy those were the days! We'd sit on
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|
the porch, watching those amazing niggers harvest the sky! Chasing
|
|
down those damn birds. Hard to imagine now, though. The automatons
|
|
don't have near as much class as this one girl had. Most of the
|
|
other niggers didn't have it, either. She was one of a kind, that
|
|
one.
|
|
|
|
See, my grandmother was a humanist. She pleaded and pleaded with
|
|
old grandpa to quit raising the bird-chasers, but it was in his
|
|
blood and she was his fool wife. Anyway, she'd pick one out of the
|
|
litter sometime. Back then, they had to be careful how they
|
|
engineered them. If you made the wings big and strong enough,
|
|
they'd require too much natal care. Vice versa, too. If you made
|
|
'em too ground-worthy, they wouldn't be worth a shit in the air.
|
|
|
|
So grandma'd pick one of the ones that was going to take too much
|
|
care. Usually, grandpa'd just take the useless newborns down to
|
|
the pond in a sack. Toss the whole lot of 'em in the water. Kill
|
|
'em.
|
|
|
|
Grandma picked this one out of the runt pile that turned out to be
|
|
the most productive, and not only that, when she flew it was pure
|
|
artistry. Least, that's what that poet said.
|
|
|
|
Yeah, some fool poet was driving by one day, came up and told my
|
|
grandpa what a beautiful sight that nigger was up in the air. Also
|
|
said she wasn't such a bad looker on the ground, if you know what I
|
|
mean. I only got a good look at her in the air, since I was usually
|
|
in school when she was on the ground. Years later grandpa told me
|
|
she was, indeed quite a looker. Enough to where he had an affair
|
|
with her.
|
|
|
|
That was after he started to charge admission to see her. He put up
|
|
signs on the highway that said See Flying Beauty - $5. Guess he
|
|
shoulda hired that poet to make a better sign. Anyway, he only got
|
|
a few customers, so he gave up on that. And it wasn't just the
|
|
sign, either. Everytime she'd go up in the air, anyone for miles
|
|
around could watch her harvest the birds. Most folk who actually
|
|
paid to see her, and there weren't many, were from out of town and
|
|
just passing through.
|
|
|
|
Well, then there was the affair. Grandma didn't take that very
|
|
well. After all, she had raised the nigger from the ground up, so
|
|
to speak. She was so hopping mad at grandpa that she went a little
|
|
crazy and shot the flyin' girl with grandpa's shotgun. Just before
|
|
she died, the girl let out some kind of weird scream; by this time,
|
|
everyone had heard the shot and was looking at the scene. The other
|
|
niggers gave grandma this sort of look, and then they all flew
|
|
away, carrying the body. That's one sight I'll never forget.
|
|
Grandma never did raise a runt after that, either.
|
|
|
|
Years later, after grandma had died, grandpa would sit in the very
|
|
rocker you're in now and tell me how much he really did love his
|
|
wife, and how he regretted what he had done. But then he'd tell me
|
|
what it was like to make love while flying a quarter mile above the
|
|
ground. He always said he couldn't begin to describe what it felt
|
|
like, and damned if I can't begin to describe the look on his face
|
|
as he tried.
|
|
(homer the brave)
|
|
[*]
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/-----------------------------------------------------------------\
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\-----------------------------------------------------------------/
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...so ends 'numba three.
|
|
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|
Once more, this is a very irregular publication ... sometimes
|
|
a new issue every week, sometimes every two months. Heh. So
|
|
if you want to contribute, just call HoWL BBS 862.1415, and
|
|
upload to the Tamer Shrew Submissions file area ...
|
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|
Peace...
|
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|
stretch
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/-----------------------------------------------------------------\
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\-----------------------------------------------------------------/
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