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 *ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ* ù ÄÄ´ volume eleven ÃÄÄ ù *ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ* stop plagiarism - let out your soul Copyright 7/96 ú úùcompiled & edited by Twilightùú ú ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ * All literature presented herein is copyrighted by their respective authors * In memory of D.L.D. ...you left me without warning, but I still can't help but fucking miss you... þ Table of Contents þ ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù 1. A Pale Rain - Firefly 2. About Our Hats - Ray Heinrich 3. After Repeated Attempts - Pamela Gray 4. Artificial Gods - Raven Caine 5. Blackbird - The Beatles 6. Blood Roses - Autumn Silver 7. Charcoal - Stephen Lush 8. Clouds - Joni Mitchell 9. Death - Mark Wood 10. Fight - The Cure 11. Four Essential Questions - Christopher Stolle 12. Grand Theft - Twilight 13. How Hard This Time? - Cheshire 14. In My Life - The Beatles 15. In Plaster - Sylvia Plath 16. Just Like A Woman - Bob Dylan 17. Landslide - Stevie Nicks 18. Losing Me - Quinn 19. Missing You - Cat-a-lyst 20. Nobody's Hero - Neil Peart 21. One Day It Happens - Silvia Curbelo 22. Our Lady Examines Her Anger - Nita Penfold 23. Quitters Never Win - Cheshire 24. Rejoice - U2 25. Rhiannon - Stevie Nicks 26. Romance - Dorianne Laux 27. Silhouette - Lynda A. Clowers 28. Sink - Twilight 29. Starfish - Twilight 30. Still - Heather Gilbert 31. The End Of A Marriage - Joanne Seltzer 32. The Martyr In My Heart - Cat-a-lyst 33. The Wishing Box - Sylvia Plath 34. Typical - Serena Lemick 35. Untitled - HappyMonk 36. Untitled - HappyMonk 37. Untitled - K.c 38. Untitled - Molina 39. Untitled - Molina 40. Untitled - Shay Teighlor 41. Untitled - The Vorpal Bunny 42. Where Is The Light? - Christopher Stolle 43. Years Of Water - Ray Heinrich 44. Yesterday - The Beatles þ Including Quotes From: Anonymous, Toni Cade Bambara, The Beatles, Rob Brezsny, Camus, Jules de Gaultier, Edna Ferber, Foolish Dictionary, _Fresh_, Joseph Heller, Courtney Love, Senator Pat Moynihan, Jesse Owens, Dorothy Parker, Jean Rhys, Anne Rice, Amber Coverdale Sumrall, Judith Viorst, Oscar Wilde, and John Williamson ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Pale Rain þ Firefly ùúùúùúùúùúù The rain is waiting. She sits inside her silent prison, Crying blood red tears on a cold pale concrete floor. The walls are bare but for the etchings, She has scraped in their unforgiving surface With her crimson fingernails, Now chipped and scrapped down to the quick. Her eyes are torrent and full of grey sky's storm clouds. The rain is coming. Her hair and rags that taunt her are limp and tattered From hours of playing in the ashes, From savoring their charcoal sweetness. Her skin is a dark shade of pale, But has the look of porcelain compared to the grizzled abyss she lies in. Beyond the relentless iron bars that guard the window, Her only link to the outside world, Awaits a long vermillion fall to the cold pale concrete of a forgotten world. The rain is falling. About Our Hats þ Ray Heinrich ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú thin black hands reach out of the backs of our heads holding up our heaven hats so when we face each other it seems there is a sky complete with stars þùúùþ Ray is an ex-Texas technofreak and hippie-socialist wannabe who writes poems for thrills and attention. He's always been married, loves dogs, evolution, electronics, and industrial design. He does not like Republicans, but is willing to make an exception if you are truly gullible and can stand bisexuals. He also owns a blue fish and loves to get comments at: ray@vais.net "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." Ä Oscar Wilde After Repeated Attempts þ Pamela Gray ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù after repeated attempts to get over you i've decided to just give up accept the fact that fifty years from now i'll be sitting in a wheelchair in the Home for Aged Dykes muttering your name some cute volunteer in a dungaree jacket will pat me on my wrinkled arm saying "there, there, maybe she'll come tomorrow" my weak heart will flutter each time a phone rings or a visitor's announced oh and i'll get visitors: all the women I wouldn't sleep with over the years because i was waiting for you they'll show me pictures of their collective land in the country their alternatively reproduced grandchildren occasionally they may ask, "have you heard from..." and i'll lower my gray head "well," they'll say, "she must be very busy" at night, rereading my tattered antique copies of 'Twenty-One Love Poems' and 'Beginning with O', looking through the yellowed photographs of our vacation in P-Twon, fifty years back, i'll ask myself what it was about you and i won't remember "The old folks say, 'It's not how little we know that hurts us so, but that so much of what we know ain't so.'" Ä Toni Cade Bambara Artificial Gods þ Raven Caine ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Black roses, red wine A sense of completion Bodies entwined He haunts my soul Like a pagan god sacrificial altar, cold stone Blood splattered walls Forces behind masks of clay An insane smile in the dark Long narrow hallways Moon washed, featureless secrets A long forgotten grave He hides within mirrors Gathering strands of thought Creating confusion and lies Blood red lips, black flashing eyes Paper mache memories The moment slips and dies "Keep emotionally active. Cater to your favorite neurosis." Ä Anonymous Blackbird þ The Beatles ùúùúùúùúùúùúù Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise. Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life You were only waiting for this moment to be free. Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly Into the light of the dark black night. Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly Into the light of the dark black night. Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise. "It is always darkest just before the dawn." Blood Roses þ Autumn Silver ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù The crystal seeker, at the dawn, sheds his crimson tears, and echoed in a silver mind are his deepest fears. Tomorrow's light will shed its rays on agony and pain; silver dancer calls the clouds and sings into the rain. Crimson petals at the feet of a silver dancer fair; with sweetest smile she tangles crystal moonbeams in her dark hair. Silver cat with deadly grace searching for a home, shadows crystal and chases shadows, yet remains all alone. Quiet child of time and sun draws her siblings' eyes, but crimson silver rages in the night, and the wholeness dies. In quiet fields the last one roams, and sunlight fills his eyes; he looks to the distant stone as the crystal seeker cries. And from the tears, a kiss of life, spreads patterns on the stone; sweet blossoms, roses, silver thorned, the Queen of Sorrow's throne. Charcoal þ Stephen Lush ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Lost tears in the dishpans set under our beds eyes like magnets sear exposedly alone in the dark with dreams and shallowing left alone rapier shining knife bent bright in the echoed shriek of Luna gas comes, it lets itself in breathe no more in the profile of shadows little boy wishes and plastic burns in the wall car security lights bleed agedly whimpers from the rusted sewer beasts brittle soddy truth loveless stockings pulled to midthigh black taffy lipstick painted liver stains speckled of overexposure broken corners, welcome fatigue slide into the effortless weight of the end. "Chicken Little was right." Ä Anonymous Clouds þ Joni Mitchell ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Rows and flows of angel hair And ice cream castles in the air And feather canyons everywhere I've looked at clouds that way Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels The dizzy dancing way you feel it As every fairy tale comes real I I've looked at clouds that way But now they only block the sun They rain and snow on everyone So so many things I could've done But clouds got in my angel dust Gets in your eyes your hair On acid stars your getting there My body's assembled into A little itty bitty gift to you When you die i've looked at life that way But now it's just another show You leave 'em laughing when you go So so don't let them inside, don't let them know Don't give yourself ohh away But now my friends are acting strange They shake their heads man they say I've changed well Well something's lost rearranged From living every every every I've I've looked at clouds from both sides now From up and down, and still somehow It's just illusions I recall I really don't know i really don't know I really don't know i really don't know I really don't i really don't clouds at all Why are we here...terrified terrified wow "Life is like an onion. You peel off layer after layer, then you find there is nothing in it." Ä Anonymous Death þ Mark Wood ùúùúùúùúùúù Awake, please self, awake! Death, he works on me. No, don't drain the fluid from my body! Awake, I must awake. Mad dream. Confined in a casket. I'm so cold, they file past. Seems so real, they touch me. I'm alive I tell you, torment me not. Nothing works, Get away! Now I fade... Pain... Scream in the night. Death laughs, rush into the void, I shall laugh with him throughout eternity. Time passes... slowly... time passes, The worms! the worms! the worms! In us all the time. Filling my mouth, consuming flesh! Climbing out the head of my penis. Bloated belly, swollen with gas. I rot, split apart at the edges. Blue meat without form. Nothing left but bones and a timeless scream. Fight þ The Cure ùúùúùúùúùú Sometimes there's nothing to feel Sometimes there's nothing to hold Sometimes there's no time to run away Sometimes you just feel so old The times it hurts when you cry The times it hurts just to breathe And then it all seems like there's no one left And all you want is to sleep Fight fight fight Just push it away Fight fight fight Just push until it breaks Fight fight fight Don't cry at the pain Fight fight fight Or watch yourself burn again Fight fight fight Don't howl like a dog Fight fight Just fill up the sky Fight fight fight Fight 'til you drop Fight fight fight And never never Never stop Fight fight fight Fight fight fight So when the hurting starts And when the nightmares begin Remember you can fill up the sky You don't have to give in You don't have to give in Never give in Never give in Never give in "Whoever said love conquers all was a fool. Because almost everything conquers love - or tries to." Ä Edna Ferber Four Essential Questions þ Christopher Stolle ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I. How can I believe in religion if I know not what God is? Just a moment ago, I thought I was visited by God but he betrayed me, so to Hell with prophets. Oh Satan, I have sinned with pride and joy as I took a bite from the fruit of the apple tree and disgraced the obscenity of gratitude. II. How can I believe in technology when I know not what politics are? Light bulbs are twisted from their fixtures for broken glass resembles a crystal prism that light can no longer shine through. Cable cords and telephone wires stretch all the dismal distances that are apart at the seams. III. How can I believe in this if I know not what that is? Nature is nature and soil is soil while grass is grass and a rose is a thorn. Everything is everything and nothing is nothing while the sun only shines at the stroke of midnight. IV. How can I believe in myself when I know not who I am? Conceited beliefs and self-sufficing means make me more stable among the fallen as those on a pedestal know not at all where their angry thoughts border. When all I can see is my reflection, in the shadow of a street light, I feel something that's a novelty and maybe it's just my hand on my face. "Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but they are not entitled to their own facts." Ä Senator Pat Moynihan Grand Theft þ Twilight ùúùúùúùúùúù Like a perfect oyster I lift the roughened shell Coated with years of barnacles. Prying open Showing the fleshy pink. And I giggle as you tickle me. You embrace my pearl Like a toy Gleefully playing But always putting it back into place Before the latch went down. But when no knife Not even a crowbar Could lift my little house Somehow, some way Unbeknownst to me You tricked your way in. So secretly, so deceptively And stole my precious sphere of white My glowing ball. Leaving your dark footprint And the lonely, empty dent. Taking the key, breaking the hinge And leaving me wide open. Beneath the red-hot, sizzling sun I shriveled into an unidentifiable format. "I've got a blister from Touching everything I see The abyss opens up It steals everything from me" Ä Courtney Love How Hard This Time? þ Cheshire ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù How hard will you hit me this time, Father? Hard enough to forget your grief? to forget your pains? How long will you lock me away from you and the rest of the world... long enough to bring her back to you? It doesn't matter you know, it can't take away the fact that she's gone because of you. You can't change the fact that she's left you, and soon I'll be gone too. And the harder you hit, the more you scratch, all the pain you cause is just a warm-up for the years of neglect loneliness, pain, and regret that will be your only reminders of a family that loved you. So hit me harder, Father... your strength is your own undoing. In My Life þ The Beatles ùúùúùúùúùúùúù There are places I'll remember all my life, though some have changed, some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain All these places had their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall, some are dead and some are living, in my life I've loved them all. But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compared with you, and these mem'ries lose their meaning when I think of love as something new. Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them, in my life I'll love you more. Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them in my life I'll love you more in my life I'll love you more. In Plaster þ Sylvia Plath ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This absolutely white person and the old yellow one, And the white person is certainly the superior one. She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints. At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality - She lay in bed with me like a dead body And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints. I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold. I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer. I couldn't understand her stupid behaviour! When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist. Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her: She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages. Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful. I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain, And it was I who attracted everybody's attention, Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed. I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up - You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality. I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it. In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience: She humoured my weakness like the best of nurses, Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly. In time our relationship grew more intense. She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish. I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself, As if my habits offended her in some way. She let in the draughts and became more and more absent-minded. And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces Simply because she looked after me so badly. Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal. She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior, And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful - Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse! And secretly she began to hope I'd die. Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely, And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water. I wasn't in any position to get rid of her. She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp - I had even forgotten how to walk or sit, So I was careful not to upset her in any way Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself. Living with her was like living with my own coffin: Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully. I used to think we might make a go of it together - After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close. Now I see it must be one or the other of us. She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy, But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit. I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her, And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me. "You want to be somebody or somebody's girl?" Ä Anne Rice Just Like A Woman þ Bob Dylan ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Nobody feels any pain Tonight as I stand inside the rain Ev'rybody knows That Baby's got new clothes But lately I see her ribbons and her bows Have fallen from her curls. She takes just like a woman, yes, she does She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does And she aches just like a woman But she breaks just like a little girl. Queen Mary, she's my friend Yes, I believe I'll go see her again Nobody has to guess That Baby can't be blessed 'Til she sees finally that she's like all the rest With her fog, her amphetamine and her pearls. She takes just like a woman, yes, she does She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does And she aches just like a woman But she breaks just like a little girl. It was raining from the first And I was dying there of thirst So I came in here And your long-time curse hurts But what's worse Is this pain in here I can't stay in here Ain't it clear that - I just can't fit Yes, I believe it's time for us to quit When we meet again Introduced as friends Please don't let on that you knew me when I was hungry and it was your world. Ah, you fake just like a woman, yes, you do You make love just like a woman, yes, you do Then you ache just like a woman But you break just like a little girl. Landslide þ Stevie Nicks ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I took my love, I took it down Climbed a mountain and I turned around I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills 'Til the landslide brought me down Oh, mirror in the sky What is love Can the child within my heart rise above Can I sail through the changing ocean tides Can I handle the seasons of my life Well, I've been afraid of changing 'Cause I've built my life around you But time makes you get bolder Even children get older And I'm getting older too Oh, take my love, take it down Climb a mountain and turn around If you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills Well the landslide will bring it down If you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills Well the landslide will bring it down Losing Me þ Quinn ùúùúùúùúù I'm so sick of hiding my true self locked up I feel as though I might lose the key, and then where would I be? my actions are false, though my feelings are true Oh, what I would give to show them to you I wonder what you would do what you would think if you got a glance at the real me Do you ever look beyond my fake laugh? have I hidden my feelings so well, that looking into my eyes is like looking into tinted glass? I'm so scared I'll lose myself in this game we play but I sink in more and more day by day Is that worse than losing you? could losing myself be worse than seeing rejection staring back at me? If you saw my tears, my worries and fears, would you forget my smiles? by keeping you, I'm losing me Missing You þ Cat-a-lyst ùúùúùúùúùúùú The sands of time seem to flow Like winter molasses. The hours pass like clouds overhead, Slowly and all the same. Turning my eyes inward I see Spun threads of love tangle From my heart and soar over the miles To yours. I feel you. If only I could whisper to the moon, "Tell her I love her..." If only the moon had ears and voice To carry my message to her. Yet I feel her heart as mine own And I know that she too burns. The hottest fire, doused only By the purest water. We are burning water. Nobody's Hero þ Neil Peart ùúùúùúùúùúùúù I knew he was different in his sexuality I went to his parties as the straight minority It never seemed a threat to my masculinity He only introduced me to a wider reality As the years went by, we drifted apart When I heard that he was gone I felt a shadow cross my heart But he's nobody's - Hero - saves a drowning child Cures a wasting a disease Hero - lands the crippled airplane Solves great mysteries Hero - not the handsome actor Who plays a hero's role Hero - not the glamour girl Who'd love to sell her soul If anybody's buying Nobody's hero I didn't know the girl, but I knew her family All their lives were shattered in a nightmare of brutality They try to carry on, try to bear the agony Try to hold some faith in the goodness of humanity As the years went by, we drifted apart When I heard that she was gone I felt a shadow cross my heart But she's nobody's - Hero - is the voice of reason Against the howling mob Hero - is the pride of purpose In the unrewarding job Hero - not the champion player Who plays the perfect game Not the glamour boy Who loves to sell his name Everybody's buying Nobody's hero As the years went by, we drifted apart When I heard that you were gone I felt a shadow cross my heart Nobody's hero... One Day It Happens þ Silvia Curbelo ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú One day it happens: your lover lights your last cigarette and becomes a feather of smoke rising through your fingers, a handful of nothing, a shaft of air. It is the story of a man running after a train or whistling down some alley while you stare at the long hallway of his leaving, wondering *how will I live without?* One day the night rides in through the window and unpacks its usual stars. You lie on the thin bed and feel the room opening up like breath when the last door slams behind you final as a shot. One day you lie alone remembering the short barrel of his heart, its single bullet. "Endings are horrible, almost impossible. We are deeply instilled with the belief that love will last forever, even though the statistics give us quite a different perspective. I have had ten major breakups so far in my life and hope never to have another, but I'm far from confident. I am perplexed by the rapidity and ease with which passion, desire and shared dreams simply fade away or deteriorate into boredom and animosity. Last year I broke up with someone and believed I would never fall in love again. This year I've fallen in love with someone and believe we will never break up. My last breakup was devastating, a phantom pain of the heart. I thought I'd never love or be loved again. I started smoking, took two-hour baths so I could cry without interruption, and listened to Nanci Griffith continuously. Days passed in which I was unable to eat, sleep, or leave my home. I thought I needed a jumpstart, some incredible jolt to my nervous system in order to feel alive again. What I needed was simply to grieve. For months. Many prior losses surfaced which I also grieved. My hypnotherapist, the support and love of my friends, my writing, my dreams and the passing of time pulled me through. Love comes with no guarantee. The alternative is to display my scars and close my heart. A price I'm not willing to pay." Ä Amber Coverdale Sumrall Our Lady Examines Her Anger þ Nita Penfold ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù like a foreign object turning it over, looking for cracks flaws in the obsidian surface. She is angry at him for going on with his life as if she were not maimed as if she had not lost an arm to him, a foot, hobbling around now trying to grow them back. Each memory of their life together an obstacle to trip over: the little boy who wanted approval from his father, the little girl who needed her mother's love, two artists attempting support through the hardness, holding each other's tears in the night. She loved the soul of this man who reflected back her own undetected strengths, who could transform himself into roles with rich masks, who played like a gleeful boy, who showed her that happiness was indeed possible but must be made, joy could be found if you are open to the moment. So she opened, and he closed to her. But most of all, as she catches her distorted face in the shiny whorls, she is angry because loving him was the closest she had ever come to loving herself. "An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself." Ä Camus Quitters Never Win þ Cheshire ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú ...and it doesn't matter anyway, not down there on the mean, crowded streets and not up here on top of this sleazy second-rate apartment building I used to call home. It never matters how hard you swing, 'cause they can always hit you harder the next time. It doesn't matter how much you care, because nobody else does. And it doeesn't matter how much you cry - trust me on that one. Yeah, I was young and naive like the rest, and I believed them - "Work hard and you'll come out on top. Try harder and you'll get it." Nobody thought to tell me that no matter *how* hard you try, they can still take it all away from you. I had just graduated after heavy struggling when my father's company called, telling us how unfortunate it was that my father's own negligence led to his "accident". He was buried day after I walked across the stage. Mom was nothing short of useless after that. She stayed home a lot, cried a lot, and drank more than that. She took *herself* away in a blaze of glory called a car crash. I was creeping through college at the time and didn't have any legal eagles guiding me so Ole Uncle Sam couldn't help me past life insurance, and that hardly covered tuition, so I had to drop out. Everything I worked for tossed away, because some factory worker forgot to put out the "floor wet" sign after he mopped. I stuck it out for a while, got my own place and a job waiting tables. I guess I thought maybe I could put it all back together. Maybe it'll somehow turn out okay. Then some junkies broke in and stole everything I owned. Everything I EVER owned. So here I am. I'm tired of the lies. Tired, ya know? They build up your hopes and dash them into a million billion pieces on the street. But I'm following *my* dreams... The crowds are forming now. I guess my crazy old landlady figured out all by herself that I'm not up on the roof to sunbathe . Now the news crews - and the firemen who will try to tell me that it'll all be okay if I come down. More lies, more deception. Channel 6, channel 11...and some radio crews too. Good, they can all know the truth. Now here's the firewoman with her pretty shiny ladder to talk me down with sweet soothing speech, and I dont hear a word. Fevered newscasters give their dramatic reports of a desperate suicidal young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Mothers hold their sons close, Fathers shield their sons' eyes, and now I fall over the edge. ...and I never was a winner anyway. "'I have this dream.' 'Yeah, what?' 'Nothing. Just sometimes I have it, that's all.'" Ä _Fresh_ Rejoice þ U2 ùúùúùúù He's falling, he's falling, And outside the buildings are tumbling down, And inside all over the ground. Do it again. But what am I to do? What in the world am I to say? There's nothing for us to do. He says you'll change the world someday. I rejoice. He's building, I'll follow. Bear with him. I'm listing to what he's saying. Everyone's crazy, but I'm too lazy. Why? What must I do? What am I supposed to say? I'll never change the world. But I can change the world in you. Rejoice, rejoice. What am I to do? Tell me what I am supposed to say. I can't change the world. But I can change the world in me. Rejoice I don't know I don't know what to change. Rejoice Rejoice "Happiness is a warm gun." Ä The Beatles Rhiannon þ Stevie Nicks ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night And wouldn't you love to love her She rules her life like a bird in flight And who will be her lover... And who will be her lover... All your life you've never seen A woman - taken by the wind Would you stay if she promised you heaven Will you ever win... She is like a cat in the dark And then she is the darkness She rules her life like a fine skylark - And when the sky is starless - All your life you've never seen - A woman - taken by the wind Would you stay if she promised you heaven Will you ever win... Dreams unwind. Love's a state of mind. "I've discovered that romantic love is a disillusion that causes no one anything but pain." Ä Courtney Love Romance þ Dorianne Laux ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù I know we made it up, like God. But, god, it hurts. Like phantom pain in a leg that's been taken, what's gone throbs, aches. Nothing there and still, the pain makes a shape. Silhouette þ Lynda A. Clowers ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Life is funny Just when you think you have everything figured out It throws you a curve ball And turns your orderly little world upside down Anger intense and white hot Fear consuming and cold as winter's breath Flash through your mind In rapid succession What right does life have... Changing without your permission How will you survive What roads do you travel from here These feelings are expressed with your mind But felt, for the first time With your heart And your realize That you are alive For you have begun to feel Deeply Albeit painfully And in this one way It is good For you are growing In ways that you never knew you could And never wanted to try And it is for these reasons You see some light Feel a little hope That you will survive this that you will be stronger for it You find that suffering leads to growth And growing to truth And truth to living Not just existing You find that you are no longer a silhouette An outline of the best parts of yourself You are whole and reborn And damned if it doesn't feel a little good Sink þ Twilight ùúùúùúùúùú swimming uselessly leaden down fish filling air losing bubbles rising frantically looking anxiously grasping for the diminishing light. sinking gradually twisting around salt stinging skin freezing nitrogen forming body cramping sullenly watching it all turn dark twilight. plunging hopelessly head bowed down lungs collapsing thought ceasing life thinning brain imploding arms crossing now graciously accepting my new pitch black. Starfish þ Twilight ùúùúùúùúùú worms feasting on aqua lungs, forcibly pushing water over flaking fillets frothing bubbles - eating away at the innards, and depleting the insides. elasticity gives way to fragility binding tends to break, and the hearty core falls away slowly, piece by piece. but as the white meat turns to black - and as decay sets itself in, spring forth does rebirth new soul and new life. stumbing in new form capable medium finally reached only to have half torn away ripped to shreds in jagged teeth. and the black sets in again... speckled ailing, not entirely killing as wiggling shapes hook on to the exposed raw red flesh wishing for annihilating rot, rebirth though not an option - flailing miserably, tentacles half gone limping on those numb; core half eaten, ghost parts. gently suffering with broken crutches hanging on by tiny suctions frantic searching though knowing secretly the missing half must be discovered symmetrically - withinside. "D. H. Lawrence dreamed up the theory that somewhere in the world there is one person, and one person only, who is your missing half. If the two of you ever find each other, you can reconstitute the angel that split apart before your births. I wish I could believe this sweet romantic myth. Unfortunately, it's just too pat, too neat. I'm more inclined to think that *every* intimate relationship creates an 'angel' - a spirit that is bigger than the both of you. Imagine that in every interaction you have with your beloved, you're either feeding or starving your mutual angel." Ä Rob Brezsny Still þ Heather Gilbert ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Still green waters, They calm his mind. His hands are frozen against the railing, as the glassy ice falls, coils spilling into his veins. Spinning upwards, eyes burning as the ceiling bleeds over his body He starts to fall, into the cyclic pattern of madness the puzzle falls apart, the swing crashes, It hits the ground... It leaves us standing, waiting. The End Of A Marriage þ Joanne Seltzer ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Three years after the death of her sainted husband she learned from her daughters that he had abused them, sexually, all the girls and probably the boys as infants and children. She who was once a rock is now a dervish - now howling dark secrets - now collapsed into silence. How to divorce a man who has been dead three years? "When he is late for dinner, and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the street, I always hope he's dead." Ä Judith Viorst The Martyr In My Heart þ Cat-a-lyst ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú A killed a part of my heart today. The part just above the left ventricle. It was the part that screamed in pain When she held another. It would yell and jump up and down And beat at the walls of its cage In rage, leaving bruises. It would try to climb out of my throat Just to set things to its fancy. So I killed it. I removed it With a sword forged of wisdom, Hewn razor keen by tears of the past. Impaled on the naked blade, I severed the muscle from my being. And what is to come of this? Will it be seen by a stone statue Or a human with tears of her own? Tomorrow will see what today parades Behind a veil of darkness, the night. The martyr of my heart Has died for my sins. "Anyone can afford hate. It costs you to love." Ä John Williamson The Wishing Box þ Sylvia Plath ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Agnes Higgins realized only too well the cause of her husband Harold's beatific, absent-minded expression over his morning orange juice and scrambled eggs. "Well," Agnes sniffed, smearing beach-plum jelly on her toast with vindictive strokes of the butter-knife, "what did you dream *last* night?" "I was just remembering," Harold said, still staring with a blissful, blurred look right through the very attractive and tangible form of his wife (pink-cheeked and fluffily blond as always that early September morning, in her rose-sprigged peignoir), "those manuscripts I was discussing with William Blake." "But," Anges objected, trying with difficulty to conceal her irritation, "how did you *know* it was William Blake?" Harold seemed surprised. "Why, from his pictures, of course." And what could Agnes say to that? She smoldered in silence over her coffee, wrestling with the strange jealousy which had been growing on her like some dark, malignant cancer ever since their wedding night only three months before when she had discovered about Harold's dreams. On that first night of their honeymoon, in the small hours of the morning, Harold startled Agnes out of a sound, dreamless sleep by a violent, convulsive twitch of his whole right arm. Momentarily frightened, Agnes had shaken Harold awake to ask in tender, maternal tones what the matter was; she thought he might be struggling in the throes of a nightmare. No Harold. "I was just beginning to play the 'Emperor Concerto'," he explained sleepily. "I must have been lifting my arm for the first chord when you woke me up." Now at the outset of their marriage, Harold's vivid dreams amused Agnes. Every morning she asked Harold what he had dreamed during the night, and he told her in as rich detail as if he were describing some significant, actual event. "I was being introduced to a gathering of American poets in the Library of Congress," he would report with relish. "William Carlos Williams was there in a great, rough coat, and that one who writes about Nantucket, and Robinson Jeffers looking like an American Indian, the way he does in the anthology photograph; and then Robert Frost came driving up in a saloon car and said something witty that made me laugh." Or, "I saw a beautiful desert, all reds and purples, with each grain of sand like a ruby or sapphire shooting light. A white leopard with gold spots was standing over this bright blue stream, its hind legs on one bank, its forelegs on the other, and a little trail of red ants was crossing the stream over the leopard, up its tail, along its back, between its eyes, and down on the other side." Harold's dreams were nothing if not meticulous works of art. Undeniably, for a certified accountant with pronounced literary leanings (he reads E. T. A. Hoffman, Kafka, and the astrological monthlies isntead of the daily paper on the commuters' special), Harold possessed an astonishly quick, colorful imagination. But, gradually, Harold's peculiar habit of accepting his dreams as if they were really an integral part of his waking experience began to infuriate Agnes. She felt left out. It was as if Harold were spending one third of his life among celebrities and fabulous legendary creatures in an exhilarating world from which Agnes found herself perpetually exiled, except by hearsay. As the weeks passed, Agnes began to brood. Although she refused to mention it to Harold, her own dreams, when she had them (and that, alas, was infrequently enough), appalled her: dark, glowering landscapes peopled with ominous unrecognizable figures. She never could remember these nightmares in detail, but lost their shapes even as she struggled to awaken, retaining only the keen sense of their stifling, storm-charged atmosphere which, oppressive, would haunt her throughout the following day. Agnes felt ashamed to mention these fragmentary scenes of horror to Harold for fear they reflected too unflatteringly upon her own powers of imagination. Her dreams - few and far between as they were - sounded so prosaic, so tedious, in comparison with the royal baroque splendour of Harold's. How could she tell him simply, for example: "I was falling": or, "Mother died and I was so sad": or, "Something was chasing me and I couldn't run"? The plain truth was, Agnes realized, with a pang of envy, that her dream-life would cause the most assiduous psychoanalyst to repress a yawn. Where, Agnes mused wistfully, were those fertile childhood days when she believed in fairies? Then, at least, her sleep had never been dreamless nor her dreams dull and ugly. She had in her seventh year, she recalled wistfully, dreamed of a wishing box land about the clouds where wishing boxes grew on trees, looking very much like coffee-grinders; you picked a box, turned the handle around nine times while whispering your wish in this little hold in the side, and the wish came true. Another time, she had dreamed of finding three magic grass-blades growing by the mailbox at the end of her street: the grass-blades shone like tinsel Christmas ribbon, one red, one blue, and one silver. In yet another dream, she and her young brother Michael stood in front of Dody Nelson's white-shingled house in snowsuits, knotty maple tree roots snaked across the hard, brown ground; she was wearing red-and-white striped wool mittens; and, all at once, as she held out one cupped hand, it began to snow turquoise-blue sulfa gum. But that was just about the extent of the dreams Anges remembered from her infinitely more creative childhood days. At what age had those benevolent painted dream worlds ousted her? And for what cause? Meanwhile, indefatigably, Harold continued to recount his dreams over breakfast. Once, at a depressing and badly-aspected time of Harold's life before he met Agnes, Harold dreamed that a red fox ran through his kitchen, grievously burnt, its fur charred black, bleeding from several wounds. Later, Harold confided, at a more auspicious time shortly after his marriage to Agnes, the red fox had appeared again, miraculously healed, with flourishing fur, to present Harold with a bottle of permanent black Quink. Harold was particularly fond of his fox dreams; they recurred often. So, notably, did his dream of the giant pike. "There was this pond," Harold informed Agnes one sultry August morning, "where my cousin Albert and I used to fish; it was chock full of pike. Well, last night I was fishing there, and I caught the most enormous pike you could imagine - it must have been the great-great-grandfather of all the rest; I pulled and pulled and pulled, and still he kept coming out of that pond." "Once," Agnes countered, morosely stirring sugar into her black coffee, "when I was little, I had a dream about Superman, all in technicolor. He was dressed in blue, with a red cape and black hair, handsome as a prince, and I went flying right along with him through the air - I could feel the wind whistling, and the tears blowing out of my eyes. We flew over Alabama; I could tell it was Alabama because the land looked like a map, with 'Alabama' lettered in script across these big green mountains." Harold was visibly impressed. "What," he asked Agnes then, "did you dream last night?" Harold's tone was almost contrite: to tell the truth, his own dream-life preoccupied him so much that he'd honestly neer thought of playing listener and investigating his wife's. He looked at her pretty, troubled countenance with new interest: Agnes was, Harold paused to observe for perhaps the first time since their early married days, an extraordinarily attractive sight across the breakfast table. For a moment, Agnes was confounded by Harold's well-meant question; she had long ago passed the stage where she seriously considered hiding a coy of Freud's writings on dreams in her closet and fortifying herself with a vicarious dream tale by which to hold Harold's interest each morning. Now, throwing reticence to the wind, she decided in desperation to confess her problem. "I don't dream anything," Agnes admitted in low, tragic tones. "Not anymore." Harold was obviously concerned. "Perhaps," he consoled her, "you just don't use your powers of imagination enough. You should practice. Try shutting your eyes." Agnes shut her eyes. "Now," Harold asked hopefully, "what do you see?" Agnes panicked. She saw nothing. "Nothing," she quavered. "Nothing except a sort of blur." "Well," said Harold briskly, adopting the manner of a doctor dealing with a malady that was, although distressing, not necessarily fatal, "imagine a goblet." "What *kind* of goblet?" Agnes pleaded. "That's up to you," Harold said. "*You* describe it to *me*." Eyes still shut, Agnes dragged wildly into the depths of her head. She managed with great effort to conjure up a vague, shimmery silver goblet that hovered somewhere in the nebulous regions of the back of her mind, flickering as if at any moment it might black out like a candle. "It's silver," she said, almost defiantly. "And it's got two handles." "Fine. Now imagine a scene engraved on it." Agnes forced a reindeer on the goblet, scrolled about by grape leaves, scratched in bare outlines on the silver. "It's a reindeer in a wreath of grape leaves." "What color is the scene?" Harold was, Anges thought, merciless. "Green," Agnes lied, as she hastily enameled the grape leaves. "The grape leaves are green. And the sky is black" - she was almost proud of this original stroke. "And the reindeer's russet flecked with white." "All right. Now polish the goblet all over into a high gloss." Agnes polished the imaginary goblet, feeling like a fraud. "But it's in the *back* of my head," she said dubiously, opening her eyes. "I see everything way in the back of my head. Is that were you see *your* dreams?" "Why no," Harold said, puzzled. "I see my dreams on the front of my eyelids, like on a movie-screen. They just come; I don't have anything to do with them. Like right now," he closed his eyes, "I can see these shiny crowns coming and going, hung in this big willow tree." Agnes fell grimly silent. "You'll be all right," Harold tried, jocosely, to buck her up. "Every day, just practice imagining different things like I've taught you." Anges let the subject drop. While Harold was away at work, she began, suddenly, to read a great deal; reading kept her mind full of pictures. Seized by a kind of ravenous hysteria, she raced through novels, women's magazines, newspapers, and even the anecdotes in her 'Joy of Cooking'; she read travel brochures, home appliance circulars, the 'Sears Roebuck Catalogue', the instructions on soap-flake boxes, the blurbs on the back of record-jackets - anything to keep from facing the gaping void in her own head of which Harold had made her so painfully conscious. But as soon as she lifted her eyes from the printed matter at hand, it was as if a protecting world had been extinguished. The utterly self-sufficient, unchanging reality of the *things* surrounding her began to depress Agnes. With a jealous awe, her frightened, almost paralyzed stare took in the Oriental rug, the Williamsburg-blue wallpaper, the gilded dragons on the Chinese vase on the mantel, the blue-and-gold medallion design of the upholstered sofa on which she was sitting. She felt choked, smothered by these objects whose bulky pragmatic existence somehow threatened the deepest, most secret roots of her own ephemeral being. Harold, she knew only too well, would tolerate no such vainglorious nonsense from tables and chairs; if he didn't like the scene at hand, if it bored him, he would change it to suit his fancy. If, Agnes mourned, in some sweet hallucination an octopus came slithering towards her across the floor, paisley-patterned in purple and orange, she would bless it. Anything to prove that her shaping imaginative powers were not irretrievably lost; that her eye was not merely an open camera lens which recorded surrounding phenomena and left it at that. "A rose," she found herself repeating hollowly, like a funeral dirge, "is a rose is a rose..." One morning when Agnes was reading a novel, she suddenly realized to her terror that her eyes had scanned five pages without taking in the meaning of a single word. She tried again, but the letters separated, writhing like malevolent little black snakes across the page in a kind of hissing, untranslatable jargon. It was then that Agnes began attending the movies around the corner regularly each afternoon. It did not matter if she had seen the feature several times previously; the fluid kaleidoscope of forms before her eyes lulled her into a rhythmic trance; the voices, speaking some soothing, unintelligible code, exorcised the dead silence in her head. Eventually, by dint of much cajolery, Agnes persuaded Harold to buy a television set on the installment plan. That was much better than the movies; she could drink sherry while watching TV during the long afternoons. These latter days, when Agnes greeted Harold on his return home each evening, she found, with a certain malicious satisfaction, that his face blurred before her gaze, so she could change his features at will. Sometimes she gave him a pea-green complexion, sometimes lavender; sometimes a Grecian nose, sometimes an eagle beak. "But I *like* sherry," Agnes told Harold stubbornly when, her afternoons of private drinking becoming apparent even to his indulgent eyes, he begged her to cut down. "It relaxes me." The sherry, however, didn't relax Agnes enough to put her to sleep. Cruelly sober, the visionary sherry-haze worn off, she would lie stiff, twisting her fingers like nervous talons in the sheets, long after Harold was breathing peacefully, evenly, in the midst of some rare, wonderful adventure. With an icy, increasing panic, Agnes lay stark awake night after night. Worse, she didn't get tired any more. Finally, a bleak, clear awareness of what was happening broke upon her: the curtains of sleep, of refreshing, forgetful darkness dividing each day from the day before it, and the day after it, were lifted for Agnes eternally, irrevocably. She saw an intolerable prospect of wakeful, visionless days and nights stretching unbroken ahead of her, her mind condemned to perfect vacancy, without a single image of its own to ward off the crushing assault of smug, autonomous tables and chairs. She might, Agnes reflected sickly, live to be a hundred: the women in her family were all long-lived. Dr. Marcus, the Higgins' family physician, attempted, in his jovial way, to reassure Agnes about her complaints of insomnia: "Just a bit of nervous strain, that's all. Take one of these capsules at night for a while and see how you sleep." Agnes did not ask Dr. Marcus if the pills would give her dreams; she put the box of fifty pills in her handbag and took the bus home. Two days later, on the last Friday of September, when Harold returned from work (he had shut his eyes all during the hour's train trip home, counterfeiting sleep but in reality voyaging on a cerise-sailed dhow up a luminous river where white elephants bulked and rambled across the crystal surface of the water in the shadow of Moorish turrets fabricated completely of multi-colored glass), he found Agnes lying on the sofa in the living room, dressed in her favourite princess-style emerald taffeta evening gown, pale and lovely as a blown lily, eyes shut, an empty pillbox and an overturned water tumbler on the rug at her side. Her tranquil features were set in a slight, secret smile of triumph, as if, in some far country unattainable to mortal men, she were, at last, waltzing with the dark, red-caped prince of her early dreams. "Everybody should have a dream." Ä Jesse Owens Typical þ Serena Lemick ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù sitting alone cold saturday night trying to be wanting to trying to love cry sobriety rears its ugly head four a.m. no one in sight breathe live be i want to i want to fuck you warm summer night alone again sleeping in the damp grass looking at the stars scars pretty colors another hit another night alone i want to i want to fuck you again more more i can't have enough love drug hate is here again i want to i want to fuck you tell me more love me love me again i want to see i want to i want to fuck you break me hate me love me kiss me fuck me again i want to i want to hit you just another night sorrow lust greed fuck me again hate me hate me hate me but don't forget leave me forget sobriety forget your life and love me. "Ducking for apples - change one letter and it's the story of my life." Ä Dorothy Parker Untitled þ HappyMonk ùúùúùúùúùúù she rains down upon my hands and whispers washes it away been that way so long forever i know that it won't stay standing by the road flowers for her hair i give them away says she doesn't care standing in an empty field no sense of time falling no sense of what is real i can't believe... i can't believe she's gone now she turned away to go i should've tried... i should've known she'd leave me here alone * special thanks to S. for the second stanza... "Year: A period of three hundred and sixty-five disappointments." Ä Foolish Dictionary Untitled þ HappyMonk ùúùúùúùúùúù subtle pounding beneath flesh something can't get out overwhelmed with necessity lost the chance to try saw her standing on the stairs tried to move my mouth night was almost over didn't want to see the light the restless feeling will not leave have to leave it soon the bugs have finally overrun time to leave at dawn find a place where no one lives and go to it with you swing an axe around my head 'til all the trees are gone take the bottle down again and take another drink wishing i could see you here but knowing you're with him getting so damn drunk tonight i just don't want to think break the thoughtless bottle just to cut away my skin thinking about everything leaving without anything living without anyone dreaming about you Untitled þ K.c ùúùúùúùú Hollow inside forgotten pain cold black blood denied lies why can't you just die why can't you go away fade... fade away... fade away to nothing. Why must you torture me sing your song some other day you're nothing to me but a reminder of what i used to be you only bring back the hate the pain you made me feel so long ago... yet so real can't you just let it go let me drown in my own sorrow let me live another day let me cry another day i did not want this don't turn back just go...fade away... into the black nothingness bury me deeply... so that I might not see what you do to yourself and what you've done to me "Excellent time to become a missing person." Ä Anonymous Untitled þ Molina ùúùúùúùú Flickering slowly in front of me Taunting me with every twitch The sunshine yellow and sparkling orange Temptation overcame my strongest inhibitions Reaching out slowly at first Trying to capture just a bit of you The warmth felt so good against my skin Jumping out to sear my flesh I caught my first glimpse of pain My first look at the real you Still I played the foolish game Attempting to grab hold of something better Soon my hands were charred and bleeding The flame had long since been out Yet still I picked at each wound And still I remembered my time with you "Love was a terrible thing. You poisoned it and stabbed at it and knocked it down into the mud - and it got up and staggered on, bleeding and muddy and awful." Ä Jean Rhys Untitled þ Molina ùúùúùúùú i search my soul, every crevice, every crack. i peer into the depths of my heart looking - for one last trace of who i used to be with you. i try to remember what we meant, what mattered. it's so lonely. and i'm so cold. my heart burns with a frozen fire of hate and misery. you touched me once and i melted beneath your fingers. my skin crawled with excitement and my body numbed itself. now you touch me and i jump. i back away from any warmth. my flesh shudders at the thought of you being near me. your voice sends chills down my spine. fuck you for caring. fuck you for thinking i cared. go away and take your love with you. i don't want it. i don't need it. everyone goes away sooner or later. you will too. go now while i have my heart braced. never look back for you'll never see me again. not the me you knew. my expression now one of hate and dismay. the joy drained from my eyes as time slips by. my life is a joke. and our memories are as jaded as death. i hate you being near me. your voice sends chills down my spine. fuck you for caring. fuck you for thinking i cared. "Scratch a lover and find a foe." Ä Dorothy Parker Untitled þ Shay Teighlor ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù The reverbration of the telephone ring, a soft click. "He Left" T words banished U G To A M N paridoxical corridor B I inside of L THOUGHTS No good-bye's, no C-ya's, no hugs; just the perpetual silence of the dial tone. When something disappears walk towards the familiar. At first eyes brush against nothingness in this isolated place. Though the disfigured circle hides in the background. Waiting, watching for the simple cue that brings things to life. Smile here, laugh at that part, move over there. Mechanics of the actor are a little out of touch and somewhat insane. Finding, playing a part much easier than watching the rain. The face lingers in the halls, voice echoes in the crowd Rewinding, Fastforwarding Replaying History Life outside the box set stage falls upon the actors lap. Trapped in a poetic prison, the room pours with desperation and hope. Always raining, weather knives thrust forward stabbing at blades of grass or falling softly to the rhythm of love. Catching the rain in a glass, a hand curves script around a page, wondering if it ever rains in New Mexico. "Life is not one thing after another...it's the same damn thing over and over!" Ä Anonymous Untitled þ The Vorpal Bunny ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Making a leap into nowhere Throwing my emotions down into the unknown Hoping my soul will land safely Instead it crashes roughly on a floor made of stone In time I know Trust will come naturally For right now, though Our love is misery The bittersweet taste of your kiss Both passion and pain all in one tender touch The tenderness of my caress Letting you know that I need you so much The pleasure I feel This pain is so real Our destinies apart I won't let your love tear up my heart When it all comes back from afar Will I still be standing here or will I disappear Will you still remember my name Will you have brought to life all my darkest fears Turn back around (don't leave me alone) The tears on my fact show the weakness inside Tell me you love me, tell me you need me Before you tell me goodbye Standing alone in the darkness No one else around me to help heal my deep wounds Memories shredded like canvas It all loses meaning when I can't love you Don't turn around (you left me alone) The tears in the dust show my strength deep inside I told you I loved you, I told you I needed you But now I'm telling you goodbye Where Is The Light? þ Christopher Stolle ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú something has got me down and I don't now what it is creeping up on me like a storm as it wreaks my total existence and my fears run deeper and deeper I stood on solid ground that was loose all my functions began to dissolve so I ran, I ran, to where do I run then I hit the end of a road and I smashed into a wall can't wait for the savior time are short and sour I couldn't climb a ladder so I climbed a mountain and I fell on a bed of roses I sleep with ease and peace my ego never was visible so I cry, I cry, to whom do I cry and when I awake I'm alone in this overpopulated world so where is she, where is she that woman in my dreams and where, where is the light "The more people there are, the lonelier it gets." Ä _Fresh_ Years Of Water þ Ray Heinrich ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú i dream of water and the seals barking on the rocks and i dream of a deep lake of navigating the shores of the lap and pound of years of water of willow strands growing in a hidden path of dark waves eating through wet years of escaping and searching for you of the touch of the water of the fossil cliffs rising over us Yesterday þ The Beatles ùúùúùúùúùúùúù Yesterday All my troubles seemed so far away Now it looks as though they're here to stay Oh, I believe in yesterday Suddenly I'm not half the man I used to be There's a shadow hanging over me Oh, yesterday came suddenly Why she had to go I don't know She wouldn't say I said something wrong Now I long for yesterday Yesterday Love was such an easy game to play Now I need a place to hide away Oh, I believe in yesterday Why she had to go I don't know She wouldn't say I said something wrong Now I long for yesterday Yesterday Love was such an easy game to play Now I need a place to hide away Oh, I believe in yesterday "When I grow up, I want to be a little boy." Ä Joseph Heller 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 ùtwiù Legalize. ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Submit your original literary works for Spilled Ink, [volume twelve], to Twilight via Internet e-mail: twilight@mail.utexas.edu ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù