ÚÄ Ü Ü Ü Ü Ä¿ Ûßß ÛßÛ ß Û Û Ûßß ÜÜÛ ß ÛÛÜ Û Ü ßßÛ ÛÜÛ Û Û Û Ûß Û Û Û Û Þ ÛÜß ÛÛÛ Û ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ Û Þ ÛßÛ ÀÄ ÄÙ Ä electronic literary 'zine Ä *ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ* ù ÄÄ´ volume four ÃÄÄ ù *ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ* stop plagiarism - let out your soul Copyright 4/95 ú úùcompiled & edited by Twilightùú ú ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ þ Table of Contents þ ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù 1. A Funny Guy - Ralph Cherubini 2. About A Girl I Spent Two Weeks With In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - C.E. Nelson 3. Bird Poop - William Kwok 4. Blank - Jason D. Lee 5. Bliss - Ray 6. Cobain's Final Lesson - Stephen Lush 7. Consumed In Flames - Angie Huffman 8. Desert Sky - Sdnaik@iastate.edu 9. Doll Parts - Courtney Love 10. Dry - Cloie 11. Hidden Rooms - James V. Scibetta 12. Hurt Me Again - Jamie Stokes 13. Hurting You Back - E. Ann 14. I Thought We Might Get Closer... - Tucker Latham 15. Ice - Therese Leigh Stamm 16. If You Keep A Rat In A Cage - Michael McNeilley 17. Il Girasole (The Sunflower) - Eugenio Montale 18. Introvert - Todd Knight 19. Journal: V. - Karen Y. Chan 20. Madrigal - Sue Lee Katherine Troutman 21. Memories Of Love - Kim Clemente 22. Mingling - Todd Knight 23. Moon Dancing - Terry Schorer 24. Musings - Damya 25. My Ballerina - Surfohio@mailbox.iwaynet.net 26. Poetry In Motion - Michael Johnson 27. Post To Me: The Purpose Of Poetry + Poem: Domestic Violets - Eu-Ming Lee 28. Remembering - J.L. Dowd 29. River - C.E. Nelson 30. Rock Star (Alternate Version) - Courtney Love 31. Sexual Dreams - Max@computek.net 32. Sinners - John Anguish 33. Someone Reading This - John Quill Taylor 34. Teenage Angst - Jason D. Lee 35. 10 Months - C.E. Nelson 36. The Boy Who Dances With Waves - Midori 37. The Joker - Ray 38. The Time Has Come - Mike 'Chupa' Christensen 39. This Music Burns - Chuck deVarennes 40. Tomorrow - Carlo G. D'Agostino 41. Twilight Shadows - James V. Scibetta 42. Untitled - Eu-Ming Lee 43. Untitled - Steve Marra 44. Untitled - Ray 45. Wind - Jim Higdon 46. Written In Lights - A.C. Missias þ Including Quotes From: "Forrest Gump", Courtney Love, Anne Rice, William Shakespeare ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Funny Guy þ Ralph Cherubini ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù he was a funny guy. when we were kids we would pull all kinds of pranks on him he was very regular same time same place every morning after breakfast once we hid all the toilet paper in the basement he just went out on the backyard lawn naked and stood in the rain for 16 minutes. we timed him. another time we hid all his underwear we peeked from the closet as he put on his trousers without any. one day our dog died my sister and I cried and cried he crawled into our room on all fours panting and we pretended he was still alive. I still think of him as a dog or cat or any number of things and I am sorry now that we made fun of him but I know it was all all of it part of the game. about a girl i spent two weeks with in philadelphia, pennsylvania þ C.E. Nelson ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú she threw me out after two weeks. she said she loved me but had had enough. she was pretty hip, ate tofu, wore big city clothes and took big city steps. she read tarot cards constantly. she said the cards didn't like me. she said i had to go. she said, i love you but you have to go. she also said, i can't have you here. so i left. i left on the amtrak from 30th street station at three pm on a thursday. i didn't tell her i was leaving yet. she cried when she got home, they informed me. then, becca called me and cried some more. i don't know why she did that. she did it again the next night but i had caught on by then. you miss me? i asked. yes. want me to come back? no. are you sure? no... yes. i didn't go back. i wanted to go back but i didn't. i don't know why i wanted to - maybe it was the city. philadelphia was a nice city. each and every day i would take the subway to south street and roam the long blocks of trendy shops and restaurants feasting on steak sandwiches and blowing cigarettes, thinking poetically about nothing; about the blonde hooker in chinatown; about the liberty bell and ben franklin's grave. it must have been the city. it might have been the girl. maybe i just needed a vacation... maybe maybe maybe. Bird Poop þ William Kwok ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú birdy birdy up in the sky why did you poop on my eye? did you do it out of ill will? or did you do it for a cheap thrill? your little gift left quite a stink thanks for nothing you fine-feathered fink next time we meet what a delightful surprise simply because it'll be your demise one last question one last lie that's all you'll get before you DIE! Blank þ Jason D. Lee ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú And I am blank no words to guide the blind for they are blind by anger and sorrow Blank because I have no emotion - been there, done that can't do that again. Almost killed myself the first time. Can't do that again. I love him. I love her. I love the picture we make. I love us. I love my dreams. I love our reality. I love you. I don't know what love is any more. We are all in an uproar. It is our fault? Fuck you. You are as lost as I am. the sad thing is: you just don't know it. So we sit. And drink. And find some sort of solice in our music. And drink. And talk about What Might Have Been. And drink. And sleep. And laugh. But on the inside: We shed the tears that cannot fall over our cheeks. We think and think and think and think. Never resolving anything, just wasting time. Because, you know, time heals all wounds. I am living proof of that. And the thing we love to do the most to ourselves - and no one even suspects: We beat ourselves up. Whipping. Slashing. Beating. Training. Killing our own internal puppies. I know. I have killed my own puppies for over 20 years now. But of course I had some help. We are blind, don't you see? We live in our own little worlds that rarely collide, and when they do meet - we say "excuse me" and go on. Blind. Blind. blind. b ind. b ind b in in n Bliss þ ray ùúùúù Leaning from side to side Groping a crowded hall Wrists and ankles tied Smashing heads on the wall. Acid eating the eyes Hope shredding the skin A throat slit by cries Suffer trapped within. Malice soothing the mind Vomiting lies on the floor Supremacy to the kind And all that is all to abhor. The gruesome under a veil To abominate at birth A smile pinned by a nail Repulsed by no self-worth. Foaming tears at the mouth Licking up pitified spit Poor man builds his house In a rat-infested pit. Excreting dreams in the sewer Sleeps in a puddle of piss Atrocity couldn't be truer Loathing a rich man's bliss. Cobain's Final Lesson þ Stephen Lush ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù artist and attention-getter lend me your soul in a chord or two - you made meaning from sonic electricity some hear ugly hate but i see beyond your middle finger trend hater, trend maker angry and wild, a fragile child you said "I do not want what I have got" proved it true with one shot now what's done can't be taken back "out of the blue and into the black" now heaven, hell, or void will have its way with you unaffected fans remain few the average self-death affects six, yours a billion and two what about those two did they mean nothing to you? anger fills my heart at a life whose I was never a part hey wait... no, it's too late love your friends by living, "through this" please. (dedicated to those who haven't folded) "He's stupid; I'm smarting... I want my baby, where is the baby, I want my baby, they took my baby..." Ä Courtney Love Consumed In Flames þ Angie Huffman ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú The burn of desire It lingers on and on The softly flaming fire Even after you are gone Only mere reminders Are these scars upon my soul The scorching flames keep rising As the heat begins to lull My heart so full of longing The distance is so far I reach for your desire Holding on to a prison bar Trapped inside four walls Set me free my heart proclaims But the passion just keeps searing Consumed forever in flames Desert Sky þ Sdnaik@iastate.edu ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Waiting... Waiting in the starless desert sky The cold winds of time shifting the dreams dunes along with it. Streaks of pale moonlight creeping around me As I see the mirages again - visions of being there Hopes beyond hope Dreams despite illusions. Drifting along I wish I could return; pause for some laughter such an oasis reach. The pain recedes only to return Can I see her again? Can I hear her please? Beyond the silent darkness when the sun rises again in this dark desert sky. Doll Parts þ Courtney Love ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù I am doll eyes Doll mouth, doll legs I am doll arms, big veins, dog bait Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, but I do too I want to be the girl with the most cake I love him so much it just turns to hate I fake it so real, I am beyond fake And someday, you will ache like I ache Someday, you will ache like I ache I am doll parts Bad skin, doll heart It stands for knife For the rest of my life Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, but I do, too I want to be the girl with the most cake He only loves those things because he loves to see them break I fake it so real, I am beyond fake And someday, you will ache like I ache Someday you will ache like I ache "I wish I could find more help in terms of people that have gone through it, 'cause people that have gone through it aren't interested in the celebrity quality of me. And if you haven't noticed, there's quite a large discrepancy between my celebrity and the band. You know? And that's really gross. I feel like Cher. You know? It's like, you pay attention to what I'm wearing, but, like, somebody buy my record, 'cause it's an O.K. new wave record, please." Ä Courtney Love Dry þ Cloie ùúùúùúù the poet is dry the heart is shallow dank, with storms of empty thought she regurgitates the numbness into catchy clich‚s poetry appraised the debris of an unsound mind so through and through the soul sheds its contents like a snake would its skin coil and lash out repress and purge but you're soon to find that it molds over time decomposed into forgotten drama so i rummage through my history all spilled out like clotted blood upon the foundation of my being the trials of my heart recorded and kept in this base form of symbolism the connection of noun upon adjective replaces the heavy tears the swollen eyes the linguistics of love the grammar of aggression my interior liquidated running swiftly through pen and ink and it blots and smudges as this heart flows simultaneously with the slate of hand creation crutch for i've said too much and forgotten to feel when the moment was real so now it's all past and the scroll ages before my eyes the heart is shallow the poet is dry Hidden Rooms þ James V. Scibetta ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Come with me and we shall find Hidden rooms within your mind Ancient galleries of thoughts and dreams Thundering waterfalls and crystal streams Foilage thick with healing powers Marble mountains and golden towers Where time and space no longer exist Where past and future turn to mist Contentment and serenity flowing free As you and I explore eternity. Hurt Me Again þ Jamie Stokes ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Happy birthday to you how should I celebrate should I send a card with a nice gift no- you'd prefer me tied in a ribbon at the age of five will a nice picture do to quench your hunger or do you have to hurt me again hurt me again? but you haven't stopped each day I cry another tear or two each day I long to forget your face to forget your taste your smell to forget you but you hurt me again each day you rape me you never did- oh you wanted to but I would scream I screamed once you hurt me hurt me again and again make me feel you inside of me maybe I'll lose the fear maybe I'll lose the care Maybe I'll be able to hate you hurt me again (in celebration of the birthday of the person who is my eternal tormentor, and who has caused much pain in my life, but who I still can not harbor any feelings of hatred. That emotion, it seems, alludes me. Am I blessed or cursed?) hurting you back þ E. Ann ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú i hate you when you hurt me - i try to hurt you back but i can't be that cold. i hate you when i feel the stupid weak tearstains on my sheets, tears i've wasted on you. my eyes are swollen and my heart burns and it's all because of you. i hate when you call me "her" name and then call it a mistake, instead of the slap of pain it really is. i hate when you apologize and sound so sad and desperate, and i give in. i hate you when you hurt me and i can't make myself hurt you back. i thought we might get closer... þ Tucker Latham ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú my fingers glide with the fluid ease of familiarity over the letters... twilight but where joy would fill my heart with its warmth after typing it not so long ago, now the empty, aching space left by its absence is overwhelmed by trepidation... i try to force back the memories, the pictures, the thoughts that ran rampant through my mind, threatening to take my sanity with each and every passing moment... but i realize that i have not brushed it off. a voice that once evoked calm, reassurance, comfort, a feeling of love and being loved, need and being needed, wanting and being wanted whispers from the void that has, without warning, filled my immediate area with silence and darkness. `true love never dies...` how those words once brought me comfort... now... how they smack of betrayal. ...perfidy my knuckles turn white with agony as i clench my fists as hard as i can... keeping with the hierarchy of needs, the simple, physical pain distracts me as the carefully-manicured guitar-pick fingernails on my right hand cut into my palm. screaming in torment as my relentless mind returns to its anguish, i curl up and begin to cry. tears track their salty course down my face as i weep with abandon, focused on the loss. ...treachery searching for an answer, i cast my gaze accusingly at the moonlit, starry sky, and, with tears clouding my vision, utter a single demand... a solitary question... `why` with no answer forthcoming, i curl up on my pallet, once a theater of comfort, now cursed with the numbing bleakness of solitude... i hope... i hope i will fall asleep soon... Because... in silence there is only one thing i can think about. my throat is hurting with the ceaseless sobbing. i think back to a time when i had solace... a pair of arms, that when wrapped around me would take away all my pains and deny the assembled catastrophes of the day their significance... a shoulder, which would soak up my falling tears, and with them, my fear, my doubt; replacing them with hope, meaning... be...longing... a pair of lips, that when curved upward in a welcoming, comforting, beautiful smile, said `i love you` without parting... a pair of eyes... looking into mine own with concern... loving me. picking up my instrument, i begin to play the song i wrote for her... it is at once beautiful, chaotic, enigmatic... and its beauty reminds me of her. as i play, i realize that strangely, although i am deeply saddened, i retain some hope... for the song is not complete. once again, perhaps, it shall slip back into its rhapsodic beauty... this time, filled with knowledge of the pitfalls ahead and borne with the skills to surmount them. learning to love. "And just remember: this is all bullshit. And I'm laying in our bed, and I'm really sorry. And I feel the same way you do. I'm really sorry, you guys. I don't know what I could have done. I wish I'd been here. I wish I hadn't listened to other people, but I did." Ä Courtney Love Ice þ Therese Leigh Stamm ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù I came as a bride to the cold country, brought all my warmth from the sea. Then, each morning, with him gone, I left the cabin alone, climbed the mountain to where Lone Pine Ridge breaches the sky, and beyond -- up the deerpaths to the old sheepherder's racked hut, past the high meadows, to the crest (impossible to see from below) where the wind howled lost in the stand of ragged lodgepole pines, where only the red-tailed hawk and golden eagle come this high, searching for prey down the backside into the valley below. With the noon sun slinking across cloudless skies, I passed the great horned owl who lives in the tallest pine, sheltered in the west side of the mountain above the crags, above the cavern. Flushed from his nest in the daylight, he brushed my cheek with his wingtips, letting me feel his force. A warning. I followed the path of the mountain goat and learned to track the stalking cougar to her lair in the rifted canyon, and walk with the deer on their silent march down the hills to drink in the sunset river. When he came home, I led him up the moontracked path to feel the fresh snow fall. I pushed him down on the hardpack, unzipped his jeans and took what I thought was mine, tender and white, the snowflakes settling on our naked skin, melting in my heat. I fucked him in the icy forest clearing, surprising him, startling him like a caught deer, shagged by the shank. He fell in the snow, victim of my desire, unwilling, but captured, and the ice of his heart never melted as his body complied. He told the boys in the bar his wife is a sexual predator, become the weird woman of the hills. Wild, she brought her beachy ways where they don't belong. "Complex as a shell, she could wind you in her convoluted circles if you aren't careful." "You can't give an inch or she'll take it all," they agreed. "A woman has to learn her place -- and that's in the kitchen, not yearning for the high wild country that belongs to men." "A man has things to do that don't involve a woman -- buddy hunting and bragging, drinking strong liquor, testing his strength with the girls in town, and he doesn't need to come home 'til the playing is through." I felt myself captured by the blue willow china on the shelves, surrounded by crockery, polished copper pots, the tyranny of mops and sponges, the dinner's demands and the cold demeanor of the man come home. I couldn't claw my way inside his maleness, firm and rigid, unwilling, and when he stayed in town 'til the bars closed or 'til he sobered up on someone's couch, day into evening and night into day as I waited in long white nights, I began to feel myself turn to ice. I never thought any more of the boys on the beach running and singing into the night unhurried, with their warm beer waiting, swimming in the tepid waves and feeling their hot tongues coming like fishes. I felt my skin grow cold in the lapland wind and made my bed alone in the snow, and watched my wildness freeze in cold summer. I no longer followed where the cougar stalks or played the trail of the deer; the owl was safe from my intrusions. I thought, no wonder lemmings throw themselves into the sea, hopeless. this is a cold country -- where the ice of desire imprisoned envelops all. If You Keep A Rat In A Cage þ Michael McNeilley ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù If you keep a rat in a cage the rat will lose the impulse to bite you. Will take food from your hand gently, before running away with it, back into the corner. Will climb above on the perches like a bird in the night. Will race to the cage door in the dark and watch you pass, hoping. Will press its face against the bars, against the floor as you pet it, as you stroke it kindly with one finger. Will perch on your shoulder, and run around inside your coat, and try not to piss on you. If you keep a rat in a cage, and you leave your best wool sweater there too close by, the rat will drag it in, pull it through the narrow opening between the bars with a strength that seems supernatural, and tear the crap out of it, pull the shreds together in a huge rat's nest and sleep in it, happily shrouded in closeness to you. If you keep a rat in a cage, there is no guarantee the rat will come to love you, but chances are good. As is the likelihood the rat will be authentic in its affection; will be constant and return good treatment in kind. And if the rat escapes, the chance is strong it will return from beneath the eaves, chattering, turning its head to one side, showing one red rat eye, unblinking, entreating, freedom is not so much, take me back in. "I may not be the smartest man around, but I do know what love is." Ä "Forrest Gump" Il Girasole (The Sunflower) þ Eugenio Montale ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Portami il girasole ch'io lo trapianti nel mio terreno bruciato dal salino, e mostri tutto il giorno agli azzurri specchianti del cielo l'ansieta` del suo volto giallino. Tendono alla chiarita` le cose oscure, si esauriscono i corpi in un fluire di tinte: queste in musiche. Svanire e` dunque la ventura delle venture. Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. Bring me the sunflower that I will transplant in my garden soil parched by salt, let it turn all day long, its face to the flashing azure sky, yellow yearning. Things born in shadow yearn towards light, long to swim in a torrent of color, of music; to disappear thus is the goal of all adventure. So bring to me, with your own hands, the plant that turns forever towards the source of transparence and light, where life vaporizes to its essence; bring me the sunflower, in love with the light. Introvert þ Todd Knight ùúùúùúùúùúùúù They say "the eyes are the window to the soul." That would explain why I never make eye contact. journal: V. þ Karen Y. Chan ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù an ice-cream parlor way up there plastic seats and marble tables you licked my chocolate the way i adore and saw your nose wrinkle but i didn't like your vanilla vanilla peace don't think you recall the place at the corner with the dumplings round and tea oiling the rims of those generic cups it was dark and the plastic rose covered our mouths chewing air like silent food wish you knew the street lights flickered fireflies in the damp night wetting our palms sticky stairs as we walked up not looking until we reached second floor walked through your door and held on all night night hungers i wanted to eat with you. Madrigal þ Sue Lee Katherine Troutman ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I dream of the balmy nights beneath the palm trees swaying in the Caribbean breeze the last lights of sunset creating sensual definitions to the contour of your moistened lips the smell of the ocean the body heat the pounding of the waves the rhythm of your heartbeat musk and mambo like aphrodisiacs sultry swaying to the drumming of the night Memories Of Love þ Kim Clemente ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I'm quiet today, I'm silenced today. I remember what the peace felt like, I remember the gentle smile that you Gave each time I entered the room. The same hospital room. The last Time I got to say I love you. Do you remember, Grandma, that I sat There with you from the minute I woke up Until the moment I put my weary head to rest? I was in good spirits then, I tried To make you laugh, and we watched All those stupid t.v. shows, and distant Relatives came to be with you, came to see you Before you left. And you said you only wanted To live to see me graduate, your first Grandchild to go this far, your Proud and shining star. I made sure you Could still drink your tea, one-half Teaspoon of sugar and me, trying not to melt The straw you had to drink it through. I remember the strength you gave me, The encouragement and the love to help See me through, when I could do nothing For you. So this May (may I make it that far), I will graduate for two. "We vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers... This is the monstrosity in love." Ä "Troilus", Shakespeare's 'Troilus and Cressida' Mingling þ Todd Knight ùúùúùúùúùúùúù Well I don't want attention (I just want to be noticed) and I don't want to be loved (I just want to be wanted) and it hurts to be a finger on a crippled, arthritic hand. And I don't dislike all people (just the ones I notice) and I don't disdain communication (I just don't like to talk) and it hurts to be a player with no adoring fans. And I don't always act so vain (just when I think I'm noticed) and I don't distrust all women (just the ones I've come to know) and it hurts to be a cadaver that's forever named John Doe. "The pain is a deep dark sea in which I would drown if I did not sail my little craft steadily over the surface, steadily towards a sun that will never rise." Ä Anne Rice, 'The Tale of the Body Thief' Moon Dancing þ Terry Schorer ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Sister moon's shining radiance inspires this dance tonight. Arms flung out and up, head back, hair flowing, twirling to her inner music, feet flying a race of joy. My eyes are dreamstruck, My smile, a mist of yearning, as I spin to her gentle piping. Star dancing Racing for the sky, I soar, spinning amongst the stars, wings wrapped about me, as I listen to their fluting song. Their radiant light fills my soul, shining from my prismed body, as my dance takes me into the universe...exploding... into fragmented points of light, raining down on mother earth, in homage. Musings þ Damya ùúùúùúù I just had an Epiphany - life is beautiful. "Way to go, Damya, you're just frothing at the mouth with those great insights, aren't you?" O.K., O.K., so what I'm saying isn't exactly a refreshing, entirely novel idea. In fact, I'm certain that thousands of brilliant minds before me have told of the same conclusion, and with greater eloquence, yet despite that, I am struck by this utterly obvious yet often overlooked thought. Think about it, how often does the average person take the time to stop running around on this hamster wheel of life and really, truly breathe? Try it. Close your eyes, and take in a slow, deep breath of fresh air. Feel your lungs expanding in that miraculous manner. Now hold it in. Keep holding, and when your lungs begin to burn and your brain screams at you to breathe, THEN you should realize how precious the ability to breathe is. After that exercise, you probably agree with me that breathing is an essential part of life. Based on that premise, why is it so few of us think about breathing? The answer is simple; we are too caught up in the petty parts of our existences, generally forgetting to enjoy the simpler, but often most gratifying experiences of life. Recently I was bored, so I decided to look at my hand. As I stared at the ordinary body part, a funny thing started to happen - all of a sudden, it ceased to look like a part of my body, an extension of me, and instead began to look like a separate creature. I then thought about the thousands upon thousands of tasks this one hand is capable of performing - from tying shoelaces to holding someone else's hand to wielding a surgeon's knife if it so chooses. Amazing, isn't it? Then I thought about the rest of this magnificent body I have been given, by God or the miracle of evolution, depending on what you believe. I have eyes that can see myriad colors and the tiniest, most minute shadings and textures of the objects I am surrounded by. I have ears that allow me to hear the tiniest inflections in my friend's voice, to hear the thundering of a summer storm cloud in a heavy, humid sky. I have a nose with which I can smell the lovely, pungent tang of chimney smoke curling up into eternity on a cold winter's morning. There are so many different organs that make this body complete and capable of doing the trillions of things it does in its lifetime. I am beautiful; I am created to be capable of feeling the most exquisite pleasure and the most extreme piercings of pain, not only physically, but emotionally as well. I feel the scorching heat of a pan when I bring my hand too close to it. I feel the bite of the first snow of the season on my cheek as I trudge through the cold outdoors. But I also feel the pain of losing a loved one to death or misunderstanding. I feel the peace that comes from knowing I am with somebody who loves me. I feel the comfort and warmth of skin when someone hugs me. Some say the human body is merely a machine - I disagree. While we may be machines, we are not JUST machines. We are not JUST flesh and blood parts that are programmed to do certain things and react only in ways that fit within specific parameters. We feel, we do, we live, and we make choices. We choose with our own free will to do what we want. We choose to talk to that lonely-looking soul standing in the corner at a party, we choose to become dancers, astronauts, writers, lovers, poets, and friends. No one can convince me we are all JUST machines. Being what we are, we can choose to live as automatons, which sadly, is what most of us do. Perhaps I speak only for myself when I say this, but I don't want to die not realizing what it is to live. I don't want to become so wrapped up in the troubles and struggles I'm faced with that I forget we only live once. It's wrong to take life and everything that comes with it for granted. I have only this lifetime to count on, this one, relatively short lifetime in which to live, to make my mark and leave an impression on this world that will be here long after I am only ashes. It is a crime to not do what I think needs to be done here on Earth, to laugh, to love, smile at perfect strangers, when so many people die early, leaving the remaining chapters of their lives blank and unwritten. I am lucky to be here, alive, breathing, and strong. Though maybe we are reincarnated and live a thousand lives, I'm not taking that chance - are you? "I am the girl you know, can't look you in the eye. I am the girl you know, so sick I cannot try. And I am the one you want, can't look you in the eye. I am the girl, you know, the one who should have died..." Ä Courtney Love My Ballerina þ Surfohio@mailbox.iwaynet.net ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Across the sand, into the sea. We dance on time and say farewell to earth. Across the red haze of the sunsets, we dance and play. Floating on the swell of life, years of sadness falling away. To ride and sing, how high can we go? Into the wave's breast, I have touched her soul. To see my ballerina floating on the sand, outlined by the sunsets of my dreams. No time, simply a being together. Did you know, it has been so wrong for me? I need to go, into your being and play upon the waves of your soul. Because I have touched your mind, and know that I can't turn back. When I am with you all is not there, there is a timelessness that we share. I love you my ballerina, dancing on the sand. poet's journal M.Z. Evensen ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú i trace wing prints left by words an endless while ago i write about tomorrows and yesterdays about the micro-time it takes to fall in love and the eternity of slowly knitting abandoned broken dreams i leave colored chalk masterpieces on summer sidewalks and print tree rings in sequoias i fashion leis of songs and word-blossom coronets more fragrant than jasmine and white ginger i compile a journal of rain-washed days and crisp pear mornings i paint pictures of imagined lives that washed into each other like water colors i write Poetry in Motion þ Michael Johnson ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù The pain hits my head and the words flow like blood to the eyes and minds of all the people who behold the view of the paper that holds my creativity. The Poet , I am. The words form from agony and the happiness combines with the emotions withheld throughout the life of the problems faced with the answers for tomorrow. The Poet , I am. The meaningless thoughts start the process as the paper takes the shape of the feelings rushing from the mind of the writer as fingers flash the past into a reanimation of life. The Poet , I am. The finished product offers the reader the opportunity to feel the suffering and heartache or the triumphs and victories of the things with which are not. The Poet , I am. Post to me: The Purpose Of Poetry + Poem: Domestic Violets þ Eu-Ming Lee ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú The purpose of poetry, in my opinion, is to reproduce a mood, emotion, sensation, or image with the use of words. This, in itself, is a constant. However, how one interprets that mood, emotion, sensation, or image may be subject to personal experiences, but those interpretations must still revolve around the central purpose of the poem. In general, this is true of all art, and the ones which are most effective are the ones which evoke the most well-defined emotions and experiences from the audience. If your art is ambiguous in any way, its purpose is lost. Whether your medium is prose, verse, free-verse, rock music, photography, pencil, watercolors, or even movies or videos, the same criteria for art holds. Now, the trouble with good art is that it should be general enough so that anybody can relate to it while at the same time being specific enough to evoke a unique human reponse. Going even further, the response evoked by the art should be immutable as time passes. Thus, while Courtney's [Love] music is excellent because it is so violently vivid and specific, it is also flawed since it can only touch a minority of people in our brief time frame. However, this does not make me appreciate her any less. In fact, I must appreciate her even more for keeping the subject of her art so relevant and meaningful to us (the audience) personally. The reason we have poetry, music, or art is because we can't directly download emotions. When you're sad or happy, you want it to be contagious. You want to force your mood on others. You might do it by gazing at your shoes as you shuffle slowly to class. Or you might do it by irritating other people on the net. Sometimes, we feel so strongly, happy or sad, but mostly sad since it is such a stronger emotion, that it feels like we'll explode from keeping it all to ourselves. So we need to share it. And the better we do it, the better we feel about it. So roughly, I gauge the quality of any work of art by its emotional baud rate. The more information and emotion it can accurately pass with the most simplistic carrier, the higher the baud rate, the better the art. Here are some words a friend I really care for once said to me. She said them as a joke, a balm to soothe the recent scars of her abusive relationship. They are so crushing, so accurate, that even though she just said them in passing, I still regard them as poetry because the few simple words overwhelm you with images and meaning. "I still have the scalp of hair he pulled out. Do you want to see it? I keep it in my top drawer to remind me of him." That still haunts me. And the way she smiled after saying that still frightens me. I don't know if she kept it to remind herself that he loved her or that he hated her. And by telling me, she was passing a demon on to me so it wouldn't haunt her anymore. And here is what I did with the demon: Domestic Violets Copyright 2/9/95 Eu-Ming Lee Roses are red And you're black and blue Two domestic violets For every bruise. Roses for bruises was no easy compromise. Bruises being so rare, they paid a dozen roses for one. But now you're not so sure of anything anymore. You said you knew how to live And you knew how to love. You knew when to forgive when push came to shove. But now you don't know anything anymore. But at least you know your worth. Roses being so rare, they pay a dozen bruises for one. It's a wonder at all that he still brings you flowers or anything anymore. Ming set your demons free "Fuck fuck you all except Ming." Ä Courtney Love Remembering þ J.L. Dowd ùúùúùúùúùúù I think I'll always remember you in the early morning hours just before dawn, when sky is but a velvet drape with melting colours soft as raindrops, a time when everything is hazy lazy clouds, majestic mountains splashed across the sky in purple palette, trees cloaked in sensuous beauty swaying against indigo skies stars like diamonds falling at their feet thinking I'll always remember you in the early morning hours, when all I feel is gentleness of morning about to awaken, when all I hear is occasional bird in song, when all I know is peace within my heart knowing I'll always remember you in the early morning hours. river þ C.E. Nelson ùúùúùúùúùúùúù when it is time to cut the corpse down from the swing, let's rejoice and sing: this neck will stretch no more. and that mouth will never chew a leg of lamb and that mouth will never sing again. that mouth will never again seek out the wet embrace of another. those lips will never cling to a beer or a woman named sarah who cries for spring, not even a fork or blade of grace. and the eyes, dead now, will never see the way we laugh and turn from our hastily buried regret. Rock Star (Alternate Version) þ Courtney Love ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù When I went to school in Olympia Everyone's the same What do you do with a revolution (yeah, you just forget your name) When I went to school in a fascist state (Everyone's the same) They call it punk rock and we got it great (yeah, what am I supposed to say) Hey you, please, make me real, fuck you Make me sick, fuck you Make me punk, fuck you When I went to school in Olympia (Everyone's the same) From parasites to psychopath Oh God, just please forget my name When I went to school in Olympia (fascist state) (yeah, and everyone's the same) And we got a little revolution And yeah, we won't forget our name, fuck you Make me real, fuck you Make me sick, fuck you Make me punk, fuck you Do it for the kids Do it for the kids When I went to school in Olympia "Yeah, he knew he was the shit, but he had no rock star ego. And he needed a little...And Kurt, you know, would carry his bag up cobbled Parisian streets. You know, and he was scrawny, you know, carried this huge suitcase because everything had to be punk." Ä Courtney Love sexual dreams þ Max@computek.net ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú thinking of you. closing my eyes wishing I could be with you. wanting you. smelling you. feeling you. tasting you. kissing you. cursing this wretched reality keeping me from you. holding you. touching you. drowsy. lethargic. longing to embrace you. undressing gently, carefully, lovingly. adore being adored. tiny twitches of pleasure taking me over. ruffling your hair. feeling the curve of your back. trembling. quivering. breathless. taking your hand. laying side by side. caressing your face. finger tracing the boundary of your mouth. stroking your legs. touching your waist. the mound of your sex. swelling of your lips. clenching of your thighs. possessing you. wanting you. desecrating you. drenched in perspiration. waves of desire. rasping, gulping for air. breath on your cheek. kissing your softness, rubbing it with my lips. squeezing your hand. fingers stroking your hair, over your shoulder. wanting to be kissed again. hands slowly crept around my neck. fingernails softy tracing. so soft. mouth brushed against your neck, shoulders, breasts. losing control. possessing you. a kiss that went on and on. forgetting the night. lips wandering over the salty tang of your skin. kneeling between your feet. owering my open mouth onto your sex, kissing, licking, sucking until it starts flowing abundantly. bodies heaving. back arched. thighs giving off heat. plundering your curves, your moist crevices. breathing quickly tempted to satisfy this mounting desire. dissolving within you. lips are swollen. your body nestled in my arms. contact with, pressing against your body throwing me off balance. my head is whirling. losing control. seized with a yearning. melting into a single lascivious entity. every nerve ending is alive and tingling. legs entwined, twisting, arching, spreading, and clenching. trying to control the flood of sensations overwhelming me. explosion-implosion. overwhelming soreness. drifting off, floating high into nothingness. into a paradise of my own... slowing of my thumping heart... caressing you beside me... and losing all sense of time. Sinners þ John Anguish ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú There`s an evil sky on the horizon Blocking out the sun. The wind, blowing it faster Over here. The silhouetted trees against the sky One by one disappear, Uniform grey. I`m sitting in my car Watching the river float by. Sometimes wondering when, Always asking why. As the storm approaches Turning light and shade to grey. I wish you`d go away. Oh well, the rain`s arrived, Heralded by a piece of litter Blowing ever higher in the wind. And the greyness rushes nearer Drifting faster down the river Looking down on sinners who have sinned. The rain, it`s getting stronger And the seagulls have no chance To get home, winging hard against the wind. And the street lights switch themselves on, Over there. And as the ships pass by, The ever greying sky Seems so large against my insignificance. I look out my window, And you begin to cry. someone reading this þ John Quill Taylor ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú someone reading this loves you truly though you will never know it, you know that it's true and it's good to know that you are loved even if that love remains in a pocket forever someone reading this abandoned a child far out in the cold you listen and you hear endless crying you say that it's not you, but you shouldn't feel left out for you may be that child someone reading this lies to a friend losing all that sleep must be worth it the real reward is that once you can lie to a friend it becomes easier to lie to yourself someone reading this cheats on a spouse doing the nasty and you don't even feel a bit shamed you won't realize your miscalculation until it's too late for shame is an essential emotion someone reading this has no legs it's good to have a real sense of humor about it so on the back of your wheel chair it says the last time i got it up was in vietnam someone reading this gets the AIDS virus and it's very sad because you didn't even have fun contracting your own death, and even sadder because you don't even know you have it yet someone reading this suffers every day so i'm sorry i have to be the one to inform you that no, it's not you but i'm here to tell you that it could be someone reading this wants to end a pain-filled life and when you imagine your friends and your relatives and all the pain and suffering this will cause them you decide you will do it anyway, only not today someone reading this will die soon but you will make it look like an accident since you were always one waiting to happen and you finally even convinced yourself of that someone reading this could be you and me but of course if i get caught i'll just say i was reading something else how about you? what will you do? someone reading this wrote this look, they even placed some initials at the end of it! but it's impossible to prove, and if you say it was me i will just deny ever having been here - jqt - "What I want to capture is the look on a woman's face as she's being crowned. A sort of ecstatic, blue eyeliner running...kind of 'I am...I am...I won! I have hemorrhoid cream under my eyes and adhesive tape on my butt and I had to scratch and claw and blow job [censored], but I won Miss Congeniality!' And that's the essence of sickness in this culture that I'd like to capture." Ä Courtney Love, regarding the cover of 'Live Through This' Teenage Angst þ Jason D. Lee ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú You can't hate me like I do. I know me better. And no one wants to share my world. Or maybe I just don't want to share. It doesn't matter. The cause is hidden, but the result is well known. I have a plan. Most people don't understand it. I had to explain it today to the one person it was written for. Made her cry. I'm an abortionist. I made her cry. Aborted her hope. Killed her fucking puppies. And right now, I'd kill anything I could get my hands on. Let me sum up the last day: class work jealousy sleep blood phone listening jealousy thinking lunch anger letter abortion procedures Fuck you Mr girly-man who uses us. Fuck you Mr wimp talking to her like that. Fuck you Mr suave flowers kissy kissy man. Fuck you Mr rapist. Fuck you Ms I-know-more-than-you-do-'cause-I'm-just-trying-to-give-you-space. Fuck you Mr overreaction. Fuck you Mr "Can't anyone spell on this newsgroup?" Fuck you Mr God. Where are you now? Fuck you Ms Lee. Get out of your little beanie world. Fuck you Mr mel. Mr killer of all hope in you and everyone else. Mr I have to carry the world's burdens on my shoulders because someone has to and I don't see anyone else doing it so help me make me into a martyr so I will die and one day a book will be written about me and I will never be forgotten. Pussy. You can't hate me as much as I do. I know me better. I want to say I am sorry. But they are empty words. I want to say I love you. But they mean nothing. I want to cry. But no tears fall. I want to die. But I cannot. I want to quit thinking. But the brain won't turn off. I want to return to some sense of normal. But it just wouldn't be the same. Fuck you. You can't hate me as much as I do. I know me better. "I don't think Kurt wants to be standing in a Bar-do at the Gate as the patron saint of drugs...beautiful losers, suicide, and heroin. I don't think Kurt wants to be there. I know that wherever he is, a lot's dissipated, but there's a major guilt left behind. And he's got to have his dignity restored, and his true self. And he could be a real grumpy bastard, but that was part of his power. You know, without saying a word, he could make the whole room feel like shit. You know? And he also had an intense narcissism like, "You're coming to me." But he also didn't have one ATOM of rock star ego, and he needed it. He didn't give himself enough credit. I mean, he knew he was the shit. At the same time he didn't give himself... I mean, he prayed every night. He taught our daughter how to pray. One thing that...when I would, you know, verbally we would pray out loud, is for him to love himself." Ä Courtney Love 10 months þ C.E. Nelson ùúùúùúùúùúùúù kiss me kiss me she cried i pulled her by the lips and she came unglued. what are you doing you filthy bastard? kiss kiss, i replied, kiss kiss while chewing on her tongue. she wiggled. i blew my nose and damned near choked on her lips. girl was not there in the morning. i was not surprised. ten months later i heard: she had vomited what was left of me. it came up with blue eyes and tiny fingers, a bit of blonde hair, no teeth. pinkish-grey and screaming. somewhat alive. she named it katlynn annamarie. the woman had some sense after all. one day i had a letter in the box. inside the envelope was a photo of me, only very very tiny and with blue eyes (not my brown eyes). there was a note as well: here's your daughter, you sonofabitch. she's beautiful. i don't love you. you were hell in bed. you can never see her. i want to fuck you again, so, fuck you! and if you come near us i'll shoot you in the ass. i love you. look at this beautiful child!!! how could you do this to me? my belly is back to normal now. if you could see me, you would want to fuck me again. the stretch marks are not so bad. i am going to marry the landfill worker. he beats me. you never did. you were always soft and gentle with your little hands. a nice guy, i always thought. you make me sick. love, rebecca. p.s. fuck you! i folded the sheet of paper and placed it back into the envelope, then folded the envelope and stuffed it into my pocket. i was still holding the photo. i looked at it for a long time. the little girl was gorgeous. she really looked like me. this was too much. i started to cry and soon my shoes were soaked. my head kept ringing: nelson, you're a father now... over and over as i went up the stairs to my apartment. i didnt know what to do. i had never made anything so lovely. i felt like a god. a very poor and worthless god. i took off my shoes and put them out on the balcony to dry. the world had suddenly grown very bright. The Boy Who Dances With Waves þ Midori ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù The boy who dances with waves is gentle in his bidding. He nimbly coaxes the blue maiden into a sweeping waltz racing her over the ocean sand. She reaches up to meet him and together they dance delicately, he tiptoes around her fragile form, not wanting to disrupt their fluid dance. With his deft steps of utmost caution, she is his to mold and bend and shape into the partner she so desires. Together they hold each other in a streamline embrace, a complete union, but a fleeting one at most. For this fiery wave resents the boy who steals her heart and she lashes out in a spray of foamy white. The good-humored boy shifts his weight and braves the blows that his willful companion inflicts, never losing the rhythm of their dizzying waltz. Onward they fly, as he tames and woos this volatile creature with his carefree smile and swift, silent movements. Her boy has tamed her and now he hears the music stop, hears the song of another wave whose secret dance he is yet to discover. Together they part, she exhausted, falling to the sand, he ecstatic, moving on to the next partner he will have to charm with his gentle touch. And so the boy who dances with waves carries on his silent bidding. The Joker þ ray ùúùúùúùúù So many nights, asleep, awake... Beyond my sights, the demons stake, Tranced i'm lying, my breath he drains I think i'm dying, but my mind restrains. The Joker's here to collect his dues, I pray in fear for faith to refuse, He reaches inside against my might To take my soul before dawn takes night. Above my cries, laughs the Joke, In my blood my feelings soak, He shines on pain, my aching years... Straight to my brain, resurrect my fears. Strip my eyes, black and white, Too weak i will to long the night, Possessed inside, i'm frozen still Aware, i hide, from his ill will. So silence locks My lips of red. The Joker mocks The life i've led. My soul runs... Leaves me for dead, The devil comes And fills my head. the time has come þ Mike 'Chupa' Christensen ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú the time came for me. tonight. time for me to face my demons. and win. wasn't expecting the time to be tonight. just kinda happened that way. there was warning. about half an hour. every little bit counts. she just came on campus. no real apparent reason. not to see me of course. that would be my wishing that the past would be changed. ha. too late for that. i found another. the time came in our own house. why not? that's where we met. a year and a half ago. has it been that long? wow. she was drunk, i wished i was. i wished i was invisible. i faced my demons. i got through the night in one piece which is good. "release" i screamed out the words as the tears fell i didn't care if she saw me. who gives a fuck about what she thinks anymore? doesn't matter. all that matters now is my megan. she helped me get through the night. thank you. i can never thank you enough. the past is gone. that was made clear to me tonight. no more i love you's. funny. the one who i stole her from was trying vainly to get her just like he did before. he can have her. she's a river. and she's gone forever. flowed off into the sea. i loved her. that was long ago. i'm kinda glad she came. helped me finally close that chapter in the increasingly longer and more stressful book that is my life. i'm 21 years old. it's not the years, it's the mileage. amen to that. i really wish i had some aspirin. splitting headaches due to extreme stress are not good. ground zero. so much crap has taken place at that bar at the house. add another to the list. "final talk with kelly magee - 3-25-95" and shut the book. This Music Burns þ Chuck deVarennes ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú band romps the storytell ride. i sit with empty coffee mug, full ears, and happily forget a good night's sleep. i've been feeling old and closed, suddenly remembered emotion surges me. grudging blossom, i open from amplified sound that cuts through fear, shatters the walls. i'd been holding back, growing slack, fixed and pompous. My arteries aren't stiff! Full and flowing. Creation, rock and roll, break me out! fluid and vital in naked joy! i'm free. this music burns alive, i declare my legs working, my heart open, love unrestrained. on a sonic flow through human voices, i'm taking back my soul. Tomorrow þ Carlo G. D'Agostino ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù The sky darkens In shades of grey Gathering the air To cleanse our decay Awash in confusion I slowly sink My trust pludered by Deceit, my heart broken Left only with myself of which to think And so many words between us left unspoken Games of chance are best left to the skilled; No greater game of chance is there than Love Its price no less than the spirit of which we are filled Deeper than the sea, brighter than the the sun above So let it rain The drops are my sorrow What we became Left us no tomorrow Twilight Shadows þ James V. Scibetta ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù We leave a trail Of broken parts Of fractured dreams And care-worn hearts As we dive into Another day Another breath We'll fade away Into the web Of eternity A destiny spun Of hyperbole Where twilight shadows Run and dance Beyond the realm Of circumstance Where fate no longer Has control The freedom won For every soul. Untitled þ Eu-Ming Lee ùúùúùúùúùúùúù When I was ten, I had a friend. She broke her head and fell down dead. Every now and then and again, I remember her and feel ten again. Suicide is suicide. Kurt will always be Twenty-seven Crystalline time. "I resent being a role model for marrying a rock star. I wanna slap girls when they do that to me, I really do. That's disgusting." Ä Courtney Love Untitled þ Steve Marra ùúùúùúùúùúùúù Though I have paid penance to an uncaring extremity For each year past the first feelings of ejaculatory warmth Held by the whims of an engorging entity I have fought urgings of violence. Pondering the joys of a hymen bloody rending. Wondering if for each unwilling fornication I would scream jubilation! Could I take the purity of an organ, unspoiled by consciousness And fill it with my hatred? Could I say to a frightened girl, dress torn, groin bleeding - I'll break your neck if you scream I'll rip your head from your shoulders and send it to your mother in a box of roses. Open your mouth before I fuck you in the ass, again. Swallow my glistening spittle gushing like blood from a savored artery - Your tongue the blade Your mouth the chalice... I pause. Am I repulsed? Yes. Am I capable? No..... I would never..... And from the whisperings of my mind. *Yes*..... Untitled þ ray ùúùúùúùú Into stillness... i yield to be led by its wave through the illness of mind, -- heartless, i sink on my journey to the shore. The sea will shell what i never forgave, Release my resistance, -- but the last wish it gave... Don't flirt with its waters no more. Enduring the tide... master,... i obey, through the depth of life, -- weightless, i rise on my journey to the shore. The sea will capture what i cast away, Unbind my emotions, -- but the last wish I gave... Don't drift up my beaches no more. wind þ Jim Higdon ùúùúùúùúùúùú the wind pulls my shirt broken bottles a newspaper and a girl's hair as she walks clutching herself keeping warm keeping up with her boyfriend a halfpace ahead Written In Lights þ A.C. Missias ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Some things you need to get in writing. Not just the mortgage rate but -- exactly what do you mean when you say you care? Maybe thoughts would be clearer when put in lights: an exhuberant *NEVER MET ANYONE SO WONDERFUL!* flashing across an urban signboard or *I'm really sorry* in soft violet neon outside my door. Everything demands the appropriate light: the glint of a wine glass raised in toast -- much better by candles only; an outdoor picnic with people-watching -- blazing sunshine, of course. I'd still accept a blazing billboard trumpeting my glories to the world. But right now I am happy here, savoring your kisses in lush darkness, with background of subdued cityflicker. ßÜ ÜßÜÝÜßÜ ßÜÞÜß Ü Ü Üß Ü ÜßÜ ÝÜßÜß ÜßÜßÜ ßÜßÜ ÜßÜßÞÜß ÜßÜ Ü ßÜÜßÜß ßÜßÜÜß Ü ßÜßÜÝÜßÜß ÜßÜ ßÜ ßÜ ß ßÜßÜß Üß Ü Ü ßÜÝÜß Üß ÜßÜ ßÜÜßÜßÜ Üßßß Üß Û Ü ÜßßÜÞ ÜßÜß Ü ßÜßÜÜ ßÜß Üß ßÜÜß Üß Ü ßßÜßÝßÜß ÜÜ ßÜßßÜ ß Üß ÜßßÜÜß ÜßßÜ ßÝß ÜßÜ ßÜßßÜ ß Üß ÜßßßÝÜß ÜÜßÜÞÜßÜß ÛÞßßÜ ß ß ÜÜßÜßÜß ÜßÜÞÜß ÜßÜÝßÜÜß Ü Üßßßß ßÜßÝÜßÜÜßÜß Ü Ü Ü Ü ßÜ ßÜ ßÜßßßÜÜßÝÜÛßÜßÜÜß Üß Üß Üß Ü ßÜßÜ ßÜÜßÜßÜßÜßÜßÜÜÛÛÛÜßßÜßÜßÜßßßÜÜß ÜßÜß ßÜßÜßÜßÜßßÜ ßÜ ßÜßÜß ß Ý ß ßÜ ßÜßÜ ßÜßÜßÜßßÜ ÜßßÜßÜ ßÜßÜ ßÜ ß Þ ß ß ß ß ß Ý Ý Þ ß Legalize. ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Submit your original literary works for Spilled Ink, [volume five], to Twilight. Ice Castle: (713) 722-5400 Paradise Playline: (713) 597-4000 Or by Internet e-mail: twilight@mail.utexas.edu ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù