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Improvijazzation Nation - Issue # 45
Rochelle Hope Mehr
consciousness is a knotty thing:
a steel-trap mind
may be commandeered
yapping and yawing
into the mewling
maw of Hell
Rochelle Hope Mehr
There will be no sleep tonight,
no thrashing about in the same roily dreams.
How I would have loved to have loved you,
to have suffered the stridency of stricture.
There is not a thing I can say about you
that is original:
Your clichť chafes,
clanging me into resonant wakefulness.
Rochelle Hope Mehr
Much of the time
of the big event.
Much of the day
slants its light
of the night.
Much of my mind
between the twit
and the wit.
The rest I degrime
to the sublime.
Season of Hemanta,
please interpret as you see
this April snow upon the mountain...
such a paradox
I do not comprehend.
(Hemanta is the late winter season in India)
Cicada throught the tall grass, we sing and we play
and let the wind gusts carry us through the mountain
and I gleefully trespass over private fences and
through dense wood
until you run out of gas (I knew you would need to
Okay it is best-we must not overdo
but it is strange
this timeout tho
I am older than you
Rampant in a pale eagerness,
a morning baptism colors the pavement
and gathers an illusion
in a childless park.
so familiar to my ears
old-fashioned tongue lashing
We bike we climb
trolley ride to the end of the line
I am infatuated with you
I am afraid to read your mind.
Quand je ne voudrais pas,
me fait mauvais le soleil.
(When I don't want it , the sun harms me.)
You say you will not go with me
I am too old...
perhaps more correctly
are too young
Robert Betts odium resartum
(for amadou diallo, succumbed to The Perpetual Absurdity on feb. 4, 2000)
arenít you really being prejudiced mrs diallo (!) (?) o why (say can) canít you (You) SEE (see?) to a well- trained police (in blue) eye a wallet held (in night) really DOES look like a GUN (?) (.) copyright, 2000, by Robert Betts THE POET
Mad, lofty world, Who can image your plunge Down into the storm? Kinema into darknessís tomb, And a gleeful, blind herd, tumbling like rain. No one can stop all that mad rush But who can illuminate Your madness, and the congealing nightmare vision? Who will defy the three-in-one God: Mars, CUPIDitas, Mammon?
I saw him towering bravely over the squall line. He was no donít worry, be happy troubadour, Eyes gay, and glittering. His long hail mingled with the roiling clouds. He had a mysticís eyes, clear, but wild. He still stands above the storm, straddling thunderbolts. Lightning anointed his pen copyright, 2000, by Robert Betts racial hic and ille
(based on four words--pain can be useful--writer Julia Duncan wrote in an apologist-oriented article in the Spring, 2000 issue of Absolute Magnitude magazine, by which she defended science fiction author Harlan Ellison for making caustic and brutal overgeneralizations in his written assessment of unpublished science fiction writers. her passionate defense made me wonder: "would she have defended al roker for having written the same thing?")
jill left the workshop in tears but pain i think can be useful who the hell does he think he is well mike i ve had an earful
my he s jogging early god look at his muscle tone i think he robbed someone hon god where s my cell phone
she overcharged me thirty cents well to err is human haven t you heard of school bitch i m telling george too man
the calc midterm was tough but pam used the right integral so what i never saw her i know she peeked that s all
he puts us to shame love cause he s read greg corso so what he s read john wilmot love damn he tries to impress so
curt cobain gone oh god these drugs are a scourge so len bias is dead hell don t you get what you deserve copyright, 2000, by Robert Betts
THE SYSTEM Gary Graham Shaka Sankofa Dead in Texas June 22, 2000
Jailed age l7 on Death Row for l9 years indited in a single mock trial, inept defense lawyer pleas of innocence and defense witnesses not called.... State- sanctioned murder directed by Texas Governor George Bush.
At the water's edge the jetty reaches out like life wanting continuance~ thoughts wander with the morning breeze he will never feel cloud pictures he will never see this continuum of waves; children can never touch this father again...
how we love to kill... there is a man in Texas playing God whose name is Satan.
A bird flies up gold-red in the sun's projection/ white butterfly on green sea grass flutters summer beginning while his life has ended.
He speaks of injustice, [ that baggage of the poor];
young handsome thirty six dynamic vivid dark eyes that see and have seen too much always rowing toward freedom;
they are killing me tonight they are murdering me tonight
he speaks to witnesses until his heart stops no more breath one eye open the other winks the future.
Life is a gift, who can be so arrogant and heartless to take it away?
THE SYSTEM 2
He fought to hold on until the Governor ordered him killed the way a shot bird falls in the sea.
The little shadow of moon lies directly opposite the sun... the expansive beauty of the earth to which all should have access is more and more walled off by greed, forbidden to victims of the Criminal Justice System.
The systems have stopped: arteries, veins, muscles, nerves, lungs, lymph, sperm will not seek their legacy, the brain shuts down/ past present future over.... who discards in the name of legality?
The gulls fly on...in the north west wind at l0:AM you sit on a bench in the shade, wishing he could be here in this place ~half a day since we learned his fate.
He said They all know I'm innocent
In the distance someone paddles a kayak, paddle- tips flash silver in the sun on his journey; destination is the south harbor where cliffs rise greenness, sand is struck golden and all is pure light.
Leave the evil places to those who govern them and those who acquiesce. Feel the wind's pulse the ocean's flow the beat of the gulls' wings inhale the salty air witness the little searchlight suns beneath leaf shadows; be mute and listen watch the tv image walking to death vitally alive~
Joan Payne Kincaid
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