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Improvijazzation Nation - Issue # 52

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So the skeleton walks up to you with the money (he's heard you can be very
easily bought.)  Naomi is  turning around in her white butterfly dance,
reaching  home with motions as  ashen as clouds.  The lover walks through,
still smelling like the devil&you don't know what do: the offer is
tempting, the job is fine, but something about this place is
disarming.  Maybe it's the fact you feel like a visitor; maybe it's the
force which permeates the air.  So you walk away, with the laughter
rattling in your ears like bones.

A crow speaks to you on the way out: "You did the right thing, you
know," he says.  He has  wily eyes.  His raspy voice is the sound of
smoke. He is standing on a shovel which is wedged in the ground.  "I'm
digging your grave," he tells you nonchalantly. "I hope it will be done by
the time you die."
Andrew Penland, 2001


James Dean saw the gypsy princess
in the sun of St. Andrew's saddest
summer, where snakes wandered through
a lake of holy water, and every dreamer
realized the tightrope strung across
this life (to be walked too late
in the age.)

the air orgasmed, full of circus tickets;
calendars winked conspiratorily at clocks
seconds ran away from every passing day
and the judge found every firefly unguilty.
cigarette smoke haunted the air like regrets
of ghosts (whispers in French.) the summer faded
(all summers do) and when James Dean

found his princess again, she was an angel
who had given up smoking and sex.  the music was new and
heartbreakingly pure; spring brought echoes of a ripple in
the stars, a prophecy of kisses, a pantherish night.
you could choke on the taste of these questions,
whose colors are secrets in the painting of this:
flowerful, soft and imperfect as the memory
of the summer's last sunrise before autumn falls.

Andrew Penland, 2001



as angels decay
they are rebuit
with parts
from dolls
and broken watches

and sent to slowly
fade away
in a freakshow's

where they watch
a (c/k)at  (cheshire/krazy)
jump over golgotha
like evel knievel

and unbeknownst to them
the audience behind
is staring into them.

(they are
the freaks.)

Andrew Penland, 2001

BIO:   my name is Andrew Penland; I live in Concord, North Carolina.  I work in an
art supply warehouse.  I enjoy cats,sweet tea and grasshopper cookies.   Check out my website by clicking on my name, above!


From Illumination Millennium:

The Mannequin in the Shop Window

Can not touch her, plastic face, dreaming she is alive
Glass window between us, mannequins are lively if you believe
Untouchable women heighten desire, quiet passion can thrive,
No fear of being stung, live women swarm like bees in a hive,

Speaking to a wall of a woman, satisfies needs to be heard
Her silent stare demands sex, live women never say that word,
Mannequins are like other women who lie still making love like dead fish,
Seeking a woman different from reality, every man's wish.

Fantasy girl, low cut dresses pearls, lace lingerie peeking,
Control her every move, a human doll, inhibition weakening,
Her wooden expression comes alive on a Sunday country drive,
Passion from our fiery hearts melts plastic burning us alive.



Please, blow up buildings in the name of killing technology, kill me,
Clog my traffic with a picket line to save the rain forest, Someday I'll get
Raise my gas price to keep me from driving destroying ozone, I can walk,
Ban freon so the atmosphere can regenerate, I will fry in the heat,
release animals from the test labs, so I can die from Cancer Alzheimer's
Take away hamburgers and all meat, spare animals, I can starve,
 Take away marijuana, I can go blind from Glaucoma, die from Aids,
Make sex illegal, so my name will die out,
I can live in a closet to protect you from my dick,
Ban cell phones, I can live without interrupted meals and brain cancer,
Ban cars, I can live without BMW Mercedes luxury, driving me down,
killing me in the street, on foot  pedestrians, hunted, endangered species,
Ban electricity, living in the dark, reading, eating by candlelight, new
of love under dead lights, no ringing phones interrupt.


Fucking Gas Guslers

You fucking gas guzzlers paying two dollars a gallon
Are destroying this world.  Park your four-door luxury
and hit the goddamn pavement for once.  You work
in Santa Ana raping the poor, after work drive to Emerald
Bay an hour away by fucking nature killing Toll Roads.
South County Assholes driving to the south
One to a car, toting cell phones smoking the dope
of this age, Land Rovers eating 10 mpg gas,
All terrain Vehicles too large to fit in lanes
clog our smoggy skies with the shit from your
vomit reeking asshole of a tale pipe. Fuck Henry Ford
with a rusty tail pipe, a criminal who invented cars.



Psychics Wanted

Are you stuck in a dead end job?
Have you been able to predict the future?
Join Psychic University
We will teach you to see the future
Read palms, see through clothing, x ray vision,
Are you a gypsy wandering the country side
barely making a living as a carnival freak
prostituting your body
to bearded ladies and carnival barkers  
Psychics, Astrologers, Tarot, Readers needed.
Earn Big $$. Work from home. Set own hours.
Please call for info.


Standing on poetry

Stand on a soapbox with a heart full of poems
find words perfectly aligned
in stanzas beaten and cut to the pearl,
never pausing, fearless when spoken, Poetry
is  lightning. Slam and stomp lyrics to sear metaphors
into the brain.  When Shakespeare
stands on the shoulders of sonnets, poems sing
from mouths of icons like Hamlet, just as God stood
on mount Ararat and slammed poetry, in 3 minutes or less,
 without props, God spoke to Moses who chiseled poems
on tablets, undying poetic commandments,
if poetry is the chosen word, invigorate my poem
with the strength of David, immortalize these words
flying from my mouth to slay Goliath, here I stand in the Coliseum,
 to kill or be killed, I am a slam poet,
Poems spoken in this life echo in the next,
Your day in the sun has come if you stand
on the shoulders of poetry, follow these poets
into greatness, speak the immortal lyrics.

Submitted by Howard Yosha... Howard also has a book, "Illumination Millenium".

mars is warming up

maniac sunlight left my back like a massuese suddenly cut down by gunfire

the freshly paved road confused the sky with it's superior blackness

our generation used to fuck just to keep from speaking

typewriter ribbons rippling in spiderwebs

saliva fell from popped balloons

kicking a beercan full of teeth

android marathon postponed

streaks of bright red lightning ended the drunk horizon & all it's flags.



dream schedule

my dream schedule on every subway wall

like memorized jazz

filled with car-commercial memories i sleep in plastic seats

until a few gunshots paint the window

and a widow in a newspaper overcoat

carries me away in a hidden pocket

of the screaming personal ads.



armchair violin

spindly golden gears eat my furniture

long notes give me a mask of silence

music makes the soles of my feet

sensitive as eyelids

i eat a fresh pear off a cold concrete garage floor

draw lipstick angels on softening flaking bathroom mirrors

& dust my heart with a girl's dandruff

on a pillow acres wide that meets my naked hands & knees



To walk in Maximus's Afterlife

      (based on the final scene-Maximus's death-in the film Gladiator.)

to be truly of free will.
to be free to walk forever
without tiring, without fears
in Maximus's Afterlife,
no longer slave and gladiator
subject to perverse wills
from multitudes of petty emperors,

to walk free under a spirit sky,
no heaven, no hell,
no Lord, no Satan, no Jove, no Juno,
no cruel lots cast before one's timid breath heaves,
no snarling tigers swiping from chains,
no clay empires forged by red and grinning hammers,

to walk beneath a spirit Sun,
kissed by gentle heat,
to feel spirit winds rolling gently
upon an innocent, scorned face,
to glide one's hand over gentle stalks of wheat,
to hear eternal laughter from Yesterday's crucified children.

to be truly of free will.
To be free to walk forever
In Maximus's Afterlife.

Robert Betts, copyright, 2001.


"Days Before Xmas"

Candy canes
Shaped by nervous tounges
Into spears

Brent M. Parker


“Pear-Mango Passion Shampoo”
Copyright 2001 Brent M. Parker

I turn the silver handle towards red
But my shower water’s
Losing it’s grip on warmth
So turning up the heat
Results only
In a steady temperature.

I know I
Poured too much shampoo.
It smelled so damn good
I couldn’t stop myself.

I haven’t had a pear in years
I’ve never tasted a mango.

I’ve forgotten what
I was going to wash next.


Brent M. Parker



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