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