"this is yours"<br><br>What sounds a woman
makes<br>That stir the hearts of men<br><br>What ways can I in
fact<br>attempt to listen if I'm<br>Deaf, Asleep, or Dead<br>to
them<br><br>She walks astride with me<br>and her movements sway
and swim<br>between our found hellos<br>and lost good
byes<br><br>What sounds do women make<br>if not a crimson
dress<br>or pure white sheets or<br>light blue babies
eyes<br><br>"She's only supposed to be your first"<br>once my mother
said behind a plastic<br>orange shower
curtain<br><br>What does she mean?<br><br>What sounds that smell like
love<br>and taste like cigarettes in lips<br>wet with a
whisper and a tongue<br>had She left with me
instead<br><br>"Take off that jacket", or<br>"show me your scar
again", or<br>"get the fuck a way from me, you
bastard"<br><br>What does she say that I don't hear<br>What does she
mean, what does she?<br>What? What is it?<br><br>What
sound a woman makes<br>when you feel her wrist
tremble<br>with emotion<br>her face is saying "yes"<br>but her
skin, her skin, her eyes--<br>are praying<br>"leave,
please leave, please, leave"<br>over and
over<br><br>What sounds a woman makes against her lover<br>How
does she part her lips and say<br>those things before
her words are real<br><br>How does she hum a caress
or sing a hurt<br>Or yell cold water, gravel, grass,
under her feet<br>one Sunday morning near the
lake<br><br>How does she speak?<br><br>Her skin murmurs "this is
yours"<br>Her hair screams against my neck "you're
mine!"<br>What does she scratch upon my silent chest<br>each
morning<br><br>What sounds, they make<br>If not the sounds of
love<br>I... I cannot hear.<br><br>I cannot say<br><br>/pg.

hi,<br>i'm a high school senior who's
brainstorming for ideas for my big second semester project. i'd
like to do something involving poetry, and my advisor
suggested that i reach out to other dc area poets, and find
out what it means to be a poet in dc, what the poetry
scene in the area is like, and maybe hook-up with
another poet who could help me out with my own writing. i
plan to go to the chi cha lounge this monday, and
check out the open mic, but if anyone could send
me/post links to their own personal pages of poetry or
offer me any leads, i would be very grateful.<br>thanks
so much,<br>a young poet

i'm a big fan of henry rollins... is anyone here
too? i just came across this kickass interview that i
think you'd like... you ever wonder what goes through
rollins' head while he's jumpin' around stage like a
madman losin' 5 lbs of sweat? check out this vid
clip:<br><br><a href=http://hrollins.screenblast.com
target=new>http://hrollins.screenblast.com</a><br><br>madman... but kickass.

(The photography of Ansel Adams)<br><br>Just
black and silver, silver and black -<br>the images are
not real, and cannot be, <br>but simply steal the
shadows and light,<br>but not the colors - <br>an odd way
to see the world today, <br>but once the way we all
saw the world:<br>stark beauty, but starved beauty -
<br>the strange, strange beauty of moonlight<br>in a
rainbow world.<br><br><br>NOTE: Please see more of my
poems at:<br>
<a href=http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
target=new>http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html</a><br> <a
href=http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan
target=new>http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan</a><br>
<a href=http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html
target=new>http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html</a>

Hey Brotha<br>Hey Brotha<br>Hey
Brotha<br><br>What's going on Brotha?<br>How are you doing
Brotha?<br>How your mama doing Brotha?<br><br>Stay strong
Brotha<br>Stay real Brotha<br>Stay true Brotha<br><br>Stop the
violene Brotha<br>Stop the selling Brotha<br>Stop the
abuse Brotha<br><br>This is your world Brotha<br>This
is your life Brotha<br>This is your choice
Brotha<br><br>Respect the Black Woman Brotha<br>Respect yourself
Brotha<br>Respect the Black Family Brotha<br><br>It's okay to cry
Brotha<br>It's okay to educate yourself Brotha<br>It's okay to
live Brotha<br><br>Have a nice day Brotha<br>See you
next time Brotha<br>Remember what I said Brotha

Re: poem with the opening line: "Born into this
color struck society" by unidentified poet, posted on
12/22/01<br>Calling for separatism and violence is not the solution
to social problems, specially "race" relations in
America. If you are truly interested in making a positive
difference in how Americans relate to each other and
perceive each other, I can think of several dozen
constructive ways to do so instead of opting for the route
that you have taken (of writing hateful rhetoric in
the form of a poem). Every human being in this planet
is related to each other, and as such, since you are
a human brother or sister of mine, all I can wish
is good luck to you in achieving peace with yourself
and your world. Since we are one giant family, any
harm you wish on a member will also touch you. Often
those who preach hate are destroyed by it. Also, often,
by the time a person begins to preach hate, he or
she is already lost to the human family, and is on a
suicidal path, and his or her enemies have already won.

Born into this color struck society<br>Where
anyone who's skin isn't like mine is called
enemy<br>Trying to make ends meet<br>Gotta keep my mind sharp
always on my feet<br>While the other man is sleep at
night<br>I'm out creeping<br>Preparing the people for the
upcoming fight<br>Teaching the young soldiers to keep
their heads up<br>Learn what you can<br>Brothers stop
sleeping with the enemy<br>I know you do<br>Stop lying to
me<br>Soldiers keep your heads up<br>Sistas educate the
young<br>Be firm<br>Yet be sharp with the tongue<br>Keep the
family together with G-O-D<br>If you hear me tell me
with w nod<br>Beware of driving while black<br>Ole
Charlie ran out of donuts<br>Be ready for the
attack<br>One day the revolution will catch
them<br>SURPRISE!!<br>Black People<br>We will arise

City of suits and stuffed people – <br> black
city <br> with white icing – <br> Washington, <br> you
have been mine and I yours <br> for thirty-two years
<br> of grind, grind, grind <br> without changing
gears. <br><br> White city – city of monuments; <br>
green city, <br> with flowers always planted while <br>
in bloom – <br> brown city of food preparers, <br>
cleaners of offices, <br> mowers of lawns, planters of
flowers. <br><br> City of beauty – beautified by <br> the
labor of the poor, <br> so that they may live in
squalor – <br> a city fed by the poor <br> so that they
may eat your scraps, <br> and fight their way <br> to
their garbage cans past <br> big cockroaches and small
rats. <br><br> Marble city – but city of monumental
<br> hypocrisy and unworried corruption – <br> of God
gave us the right, <br> and nobody’s going to notice
what we <br> do, anyway – <br> of corrupt, proud
leaders <br> who believe themselves most ethical, <br>
and will gladly tell of their sacrifices. <br> Home
of the Nation’s judiciary, lead <br> by a Chief
Justice, and other Injustices, <br> of astonishingly
political partisanship <br> which none in town <br> will
dare to notice or to comment on – <br> heading a court
system of <br> marble virtue and massive hypocrisy.
<br><br> City of corruption, city of Congress – <br> six
hundred strong – <br> yet at least five hundred weak –
<br> of a few who act, though many speak. <br><br> Of
these, there are the Republicans <br> who favor
cost-cutting, <br> except when it benefits themselves – <br>
who profess to want nothing <br> but cheerfully
taking all they wish: <br> especially government
guarantees <br> that each of them will get very rich.
<br><br> The Democrats often are no better, <br> although
if caught, it is said, <br> they may profess a bit
more shame – <br> and they will also, of course, <br>
gladly cause your local post office <br> to bear a
former colleague’s name. <br><br> But it is Congress’
appropriations <br> that decide how your <br> money will
disappear – <br> and that’s when Congress becomes <br> a
giant pork factory <br> that is run – strange as it may
seem <br> to say – by its biggest pigs! <br><br> But
not all of Washington is so lofty – <br> yet another
capital city gets by in the <br> deep shadow of the <br>
capitol’s white-painted cast iron dome, <br> on which some
<br> poor old green-patined lady stands alone.
<br><br> For many in this capital city are simply
bureaucrats <br> moving paper sheet by sheet, or placing <br>
words letter by letter on a glowing screen – <br>
creating nothing – <br> not pig iron, nor plastics, nor
wheat, <br> nor corn nor beans nor potatoes nor meat –
<br> just moving paper – <br> just shuffling papers,
or putting words <br> on a computer screen – <br>
that’s what they do – <br> that’s what we do – and
that’s what I do. <br><br> Washington, D.C.: <br> Pork
Barrel of the Nation, Rule Maker, <br> Stacker of
Papers, player with roads and <br> dams and post office
names; <br> on your slim shoulders, <br> an empire
rests. <br><br><br> NOTE: More of my poems can be found
at:<br>
<a href=http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
target=new>http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html</a><br> <a
href=http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan
target=new>http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan</a><br>
<a href=http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html
target=new>http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html</a>

It may be possible to write good poetry <br>
without seagulls – possible, but I don't <br> think I'd
like to try – the gull is such <br> a useful symbol of
spirit, sea, and sky. <br><br> One wonders if there'd be
any poetry <br> at all without water, wind, and birds
– <br> especially the seagulls out on the sea, <br>
endlessly riding the waves and winds. <br><br> One wonders.
<br><br> One wonders how anyone could forget <br> the
poetry of motion of the gliding gull <br> spiraling over
the ocean, diving for fish, <br> stealing rides on
boisterous sea winds, <br><br> or the wind from the wake of
the ship – <br> how skillfully it catches every
breeze <br> to skim above the ocean! How sinfully <br>
it loiters on the winds above the sea! <br><br> One
wonders how anyone could forget <br> the inchoate poetry
of the gulls – greedy, <br> raucous, bickering cries
that antedate <br> the human urge for more French
fries! <br><br> Yes, one knows the gull is just like us
– <br> but smarter – it knows just how to use <br>
wind alone to hold it high, and it loves <br> its
fellows' company – until dinner. <br><br> One knows no
gull has ever worked – <br> has always loitered by the
river, but <br> flies home when the sun goes down, <br>
back to the ocean – the life-giver. <br><br> Yet if we
knew what all gulls know, <br> we too might spend all
of our lives <br> on the river – our lives are too
short <br> for us to stay inside and hide. <br><br><br>
NOTE: More of my poems can be found at:<br><br>
<a href=http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
target=new>http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html</a><br> <a
href=http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan
target=new>http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan</a><br>
<a href=http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html
target=new>http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html</a>

It's hard for me to imagine him at any age
<br>other than the one <br>at which he died -<br>he seemed
so comfortable with himself, <br>so at ease with who
he was, <br>that his world - our world - seemed
always <br>at ease with him - <br>at ease with this rare
man whom no one <br>disliked, and of whom so many
<br>of us were so very fond, <br>whose ready smile and
casual demeanor <br>always seemed so effortless,
<br>even if he was complaining, as he often did <br>in his
resigned yet ironically humorous way, <br>of the slights
offered <br>by ponderous pests in his law librarian's
day.<br><br>He had a wonderful decency <br>and a calm
reasonableness that showed, <br>even when he was annoyed, <br>no
loss of grace, that displayed a wry wit<br>that made
our petty, <br>work-a-day aggravations<br>more easily
recognizable as trivial,<br>and left us almost always
<br>feeling a little better than we had been.<br><br>So it is
a little hard for me to imagine him<br>at any less
complete age -<br>adult, intelligent, cultured, witty,
patient,<br>invariably polite, <br>and almost completely uncluttered
<br>with any sign of offensive ego - <br>a man who never
seemed to be pushed, <br>or need to be pushed -<br>who
knew what to do, with competence<br>so full, yet so
casually invoked,<br>that it rarely seemed <br>as
extraordinary as perhaps it should.<br><br>For me,<br>it's hard
to imagine him at any other age,<br>though perhaps
not for others -<br>I imagine others can imagine the
bright boy<br>he must have been -<br>can imagine,
perhaps,<br>the bright, spry, dignified <br>old man he never
lived to be. <br><br>Yet I can imagine him in another
age, <br>as a craftsman - <br>a careful, highly
skilled craftsman -<br>a carriage maker, a silver smith,
<br>or a book binder, perhaps, or even <br>a gentle
monk, copying ancient books, <br>and adding drawings to
the page,<br>illuminating letters and words<br>as he
also did, in a different way,<br>in the life he
actually led.<br><br>Yes, I can imagine him as a scribe
<br>to a Pharaoh in ancient Egypt,<br>or an advisor to a
German prince,<br>a tutor to the sons or daughters<br>of
the most cultured burger <br>in old Rotterdam, or a
teacher<br>in a one-room schoolhouse<br>somewhere in the woods
of Maine.<br><br>He and Thoreau would have gotten
along<br>well together; Melville would found him<br>an
intelligent pal, <br>and Ring Lardner would have appreciated
<br>his gentle humor - <br>as we did - as we all
did.<br><br>Yes, he was so comfortable, so casual<br>with
himself<br>that all his fellow workers liked him,<br>but the man
who always held his head,<br>and usually held his
tongue<br>when all around him were loosening theirs,<br>is
dead,<br>and I know I am not alone -<br>am far<br>from feeling
alone -<br>in feeling our loss.<br><br><br> 	 - Glenn
Logan<br> 		 Nov. 27, 2001<br><br>Note: David Rabasca (1945 -
2001), a librarian in the Law Library of Congress, died
unexpectedly the day after Thanksgiving of this year.

Hey friends,<br><br>I'm looking for someone to
help me prepare the mambonova.com web page. As you
recall, Mambo Nova has prepared four poetry chapbooks to
date, with others to follow during the next 12
months.<br><br>If anyone is interested in flexing their HTML muscle
(as mine are atrophied), please contact me! I promise
the project will be swift, but fun: I'd like to set
up something clean and not too fancy within a few
weeks.<br><br>Thanks, /pg.<br><br>Paul Gonzalez<br>Mambo
Nova<br><br>paulgonzalez@...<br>(703) 582-6975

Northward bound in the silence of the sound,<br>
we slice a growing V <br> in the <br> shining
sapphire skin<br> of this icy blue inland sea, <br> our
aluminum pea pod <br> skittering like sunlight<br> over a
gently undulating sea - <br> more rocking than chopping
-<br> high above the deep dark valley <br> of the
sound.<br><br> And as we hoped, after about an hour, <br> we see
four jets of spouting whales - <br> and one, <br>
black with white <br> like a panda bear,<br> even dives
up into the air, <br> visiting with us so briefly
<br> that I long <br> to join her there <br> beneath
the bright skin <br> our two worlds share<br> in the
seldom-broken silence <br> of the sound.<br><br><br> Copyright
2001 Glenn Reitze<br><br> More of my poems can be
found at:
<a href=http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html
target=new>http://mywebpage.netscape.com/gloganpoet/gloganpoet.html</a><br> <a
href=http://geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
target=new>http://geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html</a>
<a href=http://www.poetrypages.com/pages/glennlogan/
target=new>http://www.poetrypages.com/pages/glennlogan/</a>

The flowering white crab apple of my childhood
<br> still grows there, <br> still surrounded by its
garden, <br> although a house with a concrete slab sits
<br> in the space where the tree and the garden <br>
and a lawn with surrounding hedges<br> once
flourished. <br><br> But I can still show you <br> the
flowering butterfly bush, <br> still luring
yellow-and-black swallowtail butterflies <br> to dance with the
plain-jane white cabbage moths <br> between their <br> sips
of nectar <br> from the bush's bobbing wands of tiny
purple<br> trumpets loaded explosively <br> with miniature
pistils of fiery red. <br><br> And over here, in the cool
damp shade <br> along the flagstones <br> by the
dripping faucet, <br> smell the sweet lilies of the
valley, <br> surviving still with their delicate <br>
stalks of tiny white bell-shaped flowers <br> held
between jade green leaves curved <br> like apple parers.
<br><br> And over there, <br> within that big ring of red
bricks <br> surrounding the flowering crab apple, <br>
see the fallen tulip petals, <br> mostly crimson and
bright yellow, <br> scattered like satin dresses <br> of
careless young girls. <br><br> Then come with me; <br>
duck under the blossom-laden branches <br> so fragrant
with white flowers,<br> and climb up with me to the
fork <br> in the trunk of the crab apple tree; <br>
come, <br> climb with me <br> into the fork of the crab
apple tree! <br><br><br><br> Copyright 2001 Glenn
Logan<br><br><br> Note: More of my poems can be found at:<br>
<a href=http://sites.netscape.net/gloganpoet
target=new>http://sites.netscape.net/gloganpoet</a><br> <a
href=http://www.poetrypages.com/pages/glennlogan
target=new>http://www.poetrypages.com/pages/glennlogan</a><br>
<a href=http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
target=new>http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html</a>

The clever ones found they could send death<br>
in a letter,<br> but they found, to their
surprise,<br> they killed only the messengers - <br> those who
handled and delivered the letters. <br><br> And so those
who had been sent by others<br> to wage war<br> found
they had killed others just sent <br> to bring
messages.<br><br> And so it has been, mostly, with all wars - <br>
distinguished from mere murder <br> by the fact that those who
do the killing -<br> and most of those who do the
dying -<br> are usually ordered by others <br> who
perhaps have already lived too long<br> to kill and die
at their bequest -<br> on their orders - so that
they can see, <br> like Cleopatra testing the
vipers<br> on her handmaids -<br> what death will be like,
someday, when <br> the supply of young men to die<br> has
run out, <br> and it is finally the turn of the <br>
old generals, false priests, and dictators <br> to
die.<br><br><br> Glenn Logan<br> Oct. 30, 2001<br><br><br> NOTE:
More of my poems can be found at:<br>
<a href=http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html
target=new>http://www.geocities.com/glennlogan/index.html</a><br> <a
href=http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan
target=new>http://www.poetrypages/pages/glennlogan</a><br>
<a href=http://sites.netscape.net/gloganpoet
target=new>http://sites.netscape.net/gloganpoet</a>

A poem posted for Lisa:<br><br><br>APRICOT
SUMMER<br><br><br>I remember it as the apricot summer: <br>when the
flowers <br>and then the green fruits clung to the
<br>tall thin branches<br>through all the strong spring
<br>winds and rains to ripen in the <br>sunshine of a warm
June and July.<br><br>It was the only year I remember
that <br>frosts didn't catch the flowers, <br>and the
apricots actually got to ripen;<br>and it was the same
warm summer <br>when my childhood began <br>to come to
a close.<br><br>I thought of it then as childhood's
end, <br>but of course, it was only a beginning<br>of
my second childhood; I know now, <br>with the
hindsight of my 50-plus years,<br>that childhoods never end
until we die.<br><br>But it was the end to one
childhood, <br>I suppose, an end to one sort of innocence,
<br>to be replaced by another.<br><br>And though the
apricots ripened, <br>and didn't fall, <br>we could never,
ever - at the time -<br>eat them
all.<br><br><br>Copyright 2001 Glenn Logan<br><br><br>More of my poems are
posted at <br><br>
<a href=http://sites/netscape.net/gloganpoet
target=new>http://sites/netscape.net/gloganpoet</a><br>
www.poetrypages.com/pages/glennlogan<br>
www.geocities.com/glennlogan.index.html

If the world is inevitable then really our
actions can not be judged. Then writing a poem about
tragic events might just be part of the flow. neither
righteous or elitest. <br><br>Or maybe we all just need
some more merlot. <br>See you next monday with
inevitable poems that flow.

My compatriots;<br><br>Last night was a fantastic
exchange of ideas, opinions and learning. I'm very happy
to have participated in such an engaging
discussion.<br><br>Am I worthy to write a poem about the "tragic recent
events"? Is it righteous to write about it, or is it
elitist NOT to write about it? Who am I to have words to
describe, explain, soothe or otherwise complain when the
immensity of what before me puts me so clearly in my place?
<br><br>- Only one in 6 billion people, and that's who I
am. ALL of which can make a diference--and sicne all
are moving in different directions, does that mean NO
ONE can make a difference? What does it mean,
man?<br><br>- Yes but. <br>- No but. <br>- Do you go with the
flow or are YOU the flow?<br><br>It seemed like 11:30
pm came and went unnoticed. It seemed as if the
entire room was equally divided into three different
points of view (how odd is that?) ;~)<br><br>Throughout
all this, Max mostly sat, drinking a merlot,
apparently not interested. At one point, and to my surprise,
Max said "The world is not evil, and the world is not
good. The world is inevitable."<br><br>After which
there was a short, uncomfortable silence.<br><br>/pg.

Laila:<br><br>Thanks for the response; I will try to make it over there (I lived
for many years just a few blocks away, but I'm out in the sticks
now).<br><br>Best wishes,<br><br>Glenn Logan

Glenn, <br><br>Thank you so much for your
inquiries. I suggest you come by and check us out...we meet
weekly (every Monday) at Chi Cha Lounge. See our home
page for address and time. I would love to meet you,
and bring your poetry!<br><br>&gt;&gt;Laila

...and Avec and every other alter ego of
Paul's....be sure that Word Of Mouth will have a special
performance for the occassion...and maybe cake, why
not?<br><br>...so mark thy calendars!<br><br>&gt;&gt;wild child

As an old poet, but one new to the performance
scene, I'd find it most helpful if someone would post a
list of where and when there are readings, including
open mike. I'm particulrly interested in ongoing
readings that occur weekly, etc.<br><br>Best
wishes,<br><br>Glenn Logan

Hey guys,<br><br>I've been hearing about this for
a while. "Spoken Word by Women" I'm definitely
going to be there. It starts at 8pm. I'll be reading
perhaps, "Sex Goddess." Who knows? Rather, yet and though,
details are virtually located @
<a href=http://eg.washingtonpost.com/profile/1049943/.
target=new>http://eg.washingtonpost.com/profile/1049943/.</a><br><br>Avec,<br>Ra\
clette<br>a.k.a. me

Anyone the wants to come by and share some Spoken
Word, feel free. Water Seed will be playing Thursday
sept 27 at Harambe(corner of U st and 18th). Show
starting at 9 and it will last until 12. there is no cover
and all are invited. We love it when poets come and
share with us during our break. i hope to see you
there.<br>louis

The show is on WEDS the 19th starting around 9:45 come early to sign up.

Tonight at Selams Restaurant(inbetween 15th and 16th on U Street)there will be
an open mic.  All poets are incouraged to come out.  anyone with something they
need to say are invited.

The following article comes from 'Launch'; it
details 'soft' censorship on radio stations, and suggests
that songs such as John Lennon's anthemic 'Imagine' -
which advocates tolerance and understanding between
peoples - should not be played over the air-waves. As
this was one of the songs I played to clear my head
after news broke of the carnage I can only assume
jingoistic motives are at work.... <br><br>(9/17/01, 5 p.m.
ET) -- The world's largest radio network has
generated for its radio stations a staggering list of rock
songs and pop songs with words presumably inappropriate
for the airwaves in light of last week's terrorist
attacks, including such near-standards as John Lennon's
"Imagine," Led Zeppelin's "Stairway To Heaven," and Louis
Armstrong's "What A Wonderful World."<br><br>The list, from
industry leader Clear Channel, amasses approximately 150
songs considered "lyrically inappropriate," LAUNCH has
confirmed; and it includes everything from Frank Sinatra's
"New York, New York" and Elvis Presley's "(You're The)
Devil In Disguise" to current hits such as "Chop
Suey!," the single from System Of A Down, currently the
number-one selling band in the country. <br><br>However, a
spokeswoman for Clear Channel tells LAUNCH that the list was
not meant as a corporate mandate, it was merely a
"grass roots kind of effort" by an employee looking to
give stations a reference list of song potentially
disconcerting in light of last Tuesday's (September 11)
tragedies. "It's clearly up to the local programmer to take
the pulse of their own market," she said.<br><br>Hard
rock acts were prominent on the list--AC/DC has seven
songs on the list, Metallica and Alice In Chains four,
and Black Sabbath and Soundgarden three. However, no
group was singled out like Rage Against The
Machine--"all songs" from the aggressive, overtly political
group made the list. <br><br>Others on the list include
the Bangles ("Walk Like An Egyptian"), the Clash
("Rock The Casbah"), Alien Ant Farm ("Smooth Criminal"),
Surfaris ("Wipeout"), the Trammps ("Disco Inferno"), John
Parr (St. Elmo's Fire"), Bobby Darin ("Mack The
Knife"), the Gap Band ("You Dropped A Bomb On Me"), and
James Taylor ("Fire And Rain").<br><br>~unsuspecting~

Last night, a new addition to Word Of Mouth, Gina
Rossario came, read, and gave us goosebumps. Gina names
herself a visual artist more than a poet (and she's an
excellent poet, so...) Her work can be found at
<a href=http://members.aol.com/robles1051
target=new>http://members.aol.com/robles1051</a>

YYYYYES!!!!!

YEEEESSS!!!!!

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