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WRECKing Words in the Way [playlist & more]

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  • ninplant@xs4all.nl
    wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 97.2 ~ Amsterdam Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies: no. 192: Words in the Way Maandag, 23 September 2002 (17.00 to 19.00)
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 7, 2002
      wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 97.2 ~ Amsterdam

      Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies: no. 192: Words in the Way

      Maandag, 23 September 2002 (17.00 to 19.00)

      SIMULWEBCAST and streaming [sometimes!!] <http://freeteam.nl/patapoe/>

      If you want a moment of silence
      Then stop the oil pumps
      Turn off the engines and the televisions
      Sink the cruise ships
      Crash the stock markets
      Unplug the marquee lights,
      Delete the instant messages,
      Derail the trains, the light rail transit
      If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of
      Taco Bell, And pay the workers for wages lost
      Tear down the liquor stores,
      The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses and
      the Playboys. If you want a moment of silence,
      Then take it

      - Emmanuel Ortiz 9.11.02


      Version 115B > Marcelo Radulovich [1]
      Storyline > Bob Holman [2]
      Hot roddin & Tux's & False Flags > Roberto Valenza [3]
      CIA > Mikhail Horowitz [4]
      The Bar > Robert Ashley [5]
      New York > Jose Padua [6]
      + Assfucker #1 & #2 > Vincent Gallo [7]
      + I Think the Sun Is Coming Out Now > Vincent Gallo [7]
      Looks Like its Going to Rain > Ken Nordine [8]
      Down The Drain > Ken Nordine [8]
      Science Boy > Marcelo Radulovich [9]
      Intro Blue Heron > Jack Collom [10]
      The Railway Station Fire > If, Bwana & Adam Klein [11]
      Coco the Coconut > Bruce Haacke & Miss Nelson [12]
      Barbie & Her Perilous Anatomy > Black Sifichi vs b/art [13]
      + Fantastic Literature > If, Bwana [11]
      Church of Bank > Blurt [14]
      Cloud 9, I Live in a Neighborhood of Murderers > Charles Bukowski [15]
      + Goo Pond > If, Bwana [11]
      Face to Face with Death > Kathy Acker [16]

      [1] "Hello" on Accretions <www.accretions.com>. This is superb audio
      crunch work. Lots of sampling, loops, leitmotivs creating an
      effective pastiche of wacked juxtapositions. Maximal plunderphonica
      done ESP jazz style. Stretched samples, wanked sounds, wrenched
      bites. Recommended for those who enjoy deep, dark, and in-your-face.

      [2] "Out With the In Crowd," Mercury/Mouth Almighty Records
      <www.mouthalmighty.com> , 1998. "Where you kiss each vegetable before
      you eat it" I reviewed this disc along with some others for, what I
      thought would be, a fairly regular column in the American Book
      Review. But then with my 4th review [Roberto Valenza] they went
      weirdly-censorial on me without explanation. "Bob Holman long served
      as the Nuyorican's main Slam MC - he made Slams big. I considered him
      the opposition, a facilitating flimflam, promoting what I scorned.
      But things changed: I saw him perform, then played Crowd on my radio
      shows. Mind unmade: Holman's messianic schtikishness is tempered by
      his indefatigable populist sincerity: popularizer ["Put your ears to
      the ground / and listen to your feet"] who has, through hoodoo and
      alchemical advocacy, attempted to mate hi & lo culture - his personal
      poetic interests go deep and broad. On Crowd, Holman's dusky Ken
      Nordine-ish voice, coupled with legendary producer, Hal Willner's
      impeccable production of rock vets Bob Neuwirth, Chris Spedding, and
      Wayne Kramer's non-distractive (enhancing) ambiences modulates a more
      soulful and evocative work than I expected from a Slam purveyor.
      Crowd offers a perfect synergy between America's landscapes and his
      swollen Whitmanesque heart, effectively evoked by his slant-6
      vibrato, and Hal Willner's tempered ambient accompaniments. Crowd
      captures a slackwire balance between entertainment value and depth of
      purpose as Holman whimsically murmurs and groans his way across
      various post-apocalyptic ["Ice-age in a dumpster - that's our living
      room"] mindscapes. But he remains eternally optimistic, believing
      words can be recuperated from their global emasculation as long as we
      vow to "not shut up, not nod agreeably, to load up the mouth weapon
      and kiss love hello." Holman opened a spoken word club on the Bowery
      [NY] in 2001 and will greet you with pucker lips at the door. View
      his comprehensive poetry website

      [3] "Forewarning the 21st Century: A Live Show" presumably on
      Bootburn <bootburn@...> but who knows. It is by Roberto
      Valenza <robertovalenza@...> & Steven Jesse Bernstein with
      Pete Leinonen on bass and Ben Ireland on drums. This is a fine and
      wonderful shambles, a wonderful concoction of personal and prophetic,
      poetic and noise, the beautiful and wondrous entangled in the ugly
      and foreboding. The jazzy feel is hardly retro, it is sonically
      extrapolatory and rather than hold poetics in a kind fo cliched
      framework, it actually ignites the work. Also available is RV's
      Musical Secretions Roberto Valenza, Primordial Marrow, RV's the real
      thing - not some fetishized icon from some dubiously touted past but
      the archway, extensible and expanding, bridging 60s to 90s, broad
      expressionistic brushstrokes that gouache together 19th century with
      21st. Valenza now lives in Florida. He has produced 13+ small press
      books. His first major book of poems and drawings from his time in
      Asia, "Under the Precious Umbrella," is available from Nine Muses
      Books <mw9muses@...>, 3541 Kent Creek Rd. Winston, OR 97496
      200 pages, $15 dollars inc. shipping. SJB's "I Am Secretly an
      Important Man" is available through <www.autonomedia.org>.

      [4] "The Blues of the Birth" on Euphoria Jazz. MH is a great organic
      purveyor of that much over-used sub-genre jazz poetry. He is in the
      best of spirits and company with the likes of Lord Buckley his
      spiritual father no doubt. Much word play but the nonsense never
      distracts from the notion that fun and engagement, ideas and
      frivolity can go hand in handŠ "Cannot inveigle angelic codes"

      [5] "The Bar" is one of my inner ear benchmarks. It combines casual
      conversation, beatnik atmospheres, lounginess, with cosmic
      speculation. I have played this often on my radio shows over the past
      17 years.

      [6] "My Tongue is a Red Carpet I Only Roll Out For You" on Alibi 13
      is a compilation of "best" live spoken word performers. JP is really
      the only interesting writer on here although some of the others yawn
      toward rhyming rap stand-up comedy. The problem with spoken word is
      that it is rarely as good as poetry, as funny as stand up comedy or
      as entertaining as ... well, entertainment. It is a little bit like
      what the band the Cars were to punk -- not new wave, not punk, not
      pop... JP is that rare poet who goes deep and yet manages to ruffle
      feathers at the surface as well. He is like Muhammed Ali's famed
      rope-a-dope trick. As he is regaling you with humorous snippets and
      snipes from his happy-go-unlucky days in NY you suddenly find your
      laughter going deeper and darker. Think of Groucho Marx reading
      Charles Bukowski with a pint of Jack Daniels within a desperate arm
      thrust away.

      New York

      I used to take long walks at dawn in New York,
      staying up all night in my roach infested 4th floor walk-up
      on Avenue B drinking cheap wine, baring my soul to
      the bathroom mirror as I contemplated easy listening music,
      having beatific visions of aggressive shoe salesmen
      while the angelic rants of harried personnel managers,
      brainstorming ad executives, and the insane followers of trends
      echoed through the caverns of my vacant unilluminated mind.

      Dragging myself through the gentrified streets of the Lower East Side
      of Manhattan
      in search of a cheap breakfast special of scrambled eggs and sausage,
      looking up to the sky waiting for Pussy Galore to parachute down from
      the heavens like in some James Bond movie, my head got dizzy,
      not because of the magnitude of the heavens which floated
      over the route of every Greyhound bus in America and every desolate
      flower in the world, but because the blood was rushing away from my brain.

      Expelled from the academy for acting like an asshole,
      my copy of The Tibetan Book of the Dead remained unread;
      Jack Kerouac was just someone I read when I was in high school
      because he seemed like a writer who knew how to party;
      to me the name William Blake meant as much
      as the name William Hurt, just another sensitive guy
      who you had to know really well in order to call him "Bill."

      Whether I was dead broke or living on credit,
      working a straight job marketing costume jewelry through the mail,
      or writing stories off the top of my head
      for alternative newspapers to make a few easy bucks,
      I was always the con man without a clue,
      the pool hustler who always scratched on the eight ball,
      the actor who didn't know how to tend bar or wait tables,
      the musician who couldn't keep time or play in tune,
      the poet who hated poetry and poets and pretty much everything else as well.

      One of the second best minds of my generation,
      I was suffering in a second rate way,
      always desperate but never starving,
      always angry but never mad.

      Sometimes I worked and sometimes I didn't.
      Sometimes I got jobs just by waiting by the phone --
      "I want two thousand words, on my desk, Monday morning. Serial killers."
      Other times I lost jobs by coming in on time at nine in the morning
      wide awake and smiling as the previous night's bourbon wafted
      out of my pores like a can of air freshener that was packaged in Hell.

      New York, city of opportunity, where when my girlfriend
      dumped me for the first time I went out and ended up with a twenty-three
      year old model/actress who was Steve Buscemi's brother's roommate.
      Man was I connected, if only I'd had an idea for a screenplay it
      would have taken me at least another year before I went broke.
      New York, I knew someone there who knew someone who knew Allen Ginsberg.
      New York, I knew someone there who knew someone who thought he'd once been
      abducted by a UFO.

      New York, where the six degrees of separation are cut in half,
      where the half-life of radium 226 triples like a human embryo
      at a fertility clinic, and where a quart of bourbon
      will get you one gallon drunk on any day of the week except Wednesday.

      New York, where I was in a band called Lord Burlap,
      playing sloppy guitar for a high strung, bald-headed singer who stuttered
      when he talked and who was an all around good guy and good friend of mine
      until he decided that he wanted to kill me.
      New York, where on a day after I appeared on national television
      reading a poem I wandered the streets feeling like I'd completely sold out
      and gotten nothing in return.
      New York, where I ran into my connection for writing a soft-core porn novel
      on the corner 14th and 3rd Avenue as the mustard from the hot dog
      I'd just gotten from a street vendor dripped to the ground.
      New York, where one snowy winter day I watched the smoke rise from
      out of the bowels of the World Trade Center as I lay in front of my 12 inch
      black and white TV set refusing to answer the phone,
      believing that illumination, Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus, L. Ron Hubbard,
      and Dr. Ruth were beyond me,
      and hoping that for God's sake those people would quit calling me on the phone.
      New York, where Allen Ginsberg got old and turned into one really
      creepy, self-righteous
      guy who couldn't go for two minutes without quoting Jack Kerouac.

      There's no time to be connected now,
      no time to wander desolately under the starry dynamo of the American night,
      no time to follow gurus and scholars and aging hipsters.

      Allen Ginsberg died in 1997.
      Allen Ginsberg wrote a few good poems back in the fifties,
      then starting chanting and taking his clothes off in public at every
      as he bade us to watch and listen.
      Allen Ginsberg suffered for his art, then it was our turn.

      I left New York in 1993.
      I was younger then, but not that much younger.
      I too suffered for my art. Now it's your turn.

      [7] "Recordings of Music for Film" on Warp, 2002. I got this from
      black sifichi. A perfect gift. This is the kind of soundtrack I can
      listen to for hours. Jazzy, atmospheric, Bernard Hermann meets Ry
      Cooder's Paris, Texas with brooding slabs that sound like they were
      taken directly from the great "Betty Blue" soundtrack. The music
      seems to evoke oppression in open space and harassed by choice. Gallo
      is painter, actor, director but best of all composer of this great
      stuff. He did music for experimental film [70s-80s]. Sound that fills
      space and has a subliminal tinge of angst behind its soothing
      textures. 29 pieces from an assortment of films inc. Buffalo 66,
      covering a period of some 20 years.

      [8] "Colors" Originally on Philips rereleased on Asphodel
      <www.asphodel.com>. KN is the measure of all electronic voices. There
      are hundreds of imitators in poetry in radio in advertising. When you
      want soothing, insinuating, nocturnal, reassuring, he is the
      "inventor" of the resonant baritone vibrato FM format late night jazz
      DJ voice. Even though he has sold everything with his voice he still
      maintains a relative hip image as the inventor of a kind of spoken
      word called word jazz [also the name of one of his great albums].
      Somewhere between a swamp frog, Lord Buckley's logorrhea and the jazz
      word gymnastics of Patchen / Rexroth / Kerouac is the cheeky [and
      sometimes satirical] voice of KN. His particular poetry - Word Jazz -
      is more lighthearted and less-fraught with angst than the
      aforementioned. He grooves and sails and wallows in the beauty of the
      spoken word. Not nonsense and not high sense, he soon filled a void
      between stand-up comedy and post-existential jazz jive. His first
      discs were released in the 1950s on into the mid-60s. Word Jazz was
      his creative outlet that took him far from the ridiculously serious
      grind of selling things. from his day job. He released a string of
      wordy discs on various labels from the late 1950s through to the
      mid-60s. Among KN earliest fans was the Grateful Dead. In 1991, Dead
      members hooked KN up with Jerry Garcia, mandolin player, David
      Grisman and harmonica player Howard Levy of Bela Fleck's Flecktones.
      Along with others and a cameo by another KN devotee, Tom Waits,
      making a the end product was an improv recording called "Devout
      Catalyst," an interesting collaboration. Ken was beside himself with
      enthusiasm, saying that the experience was only rivaled by Fred
      Astaire dancing to Word Jazz on a 1960s TV Special. It was nominated
      for a Grammy Award as "Best Spoken Word Recording". Word Jazz
      encouraged Nordine to try performing live. A highly successful
      appearance in Ken's hometown of Chicago was followed by a triumphant
      pair of shows at Bimbo's nightclub in San Francisco, as part of the
      1992 S.F. Jazz Festival. An interview with KN:

      [9] "Hybrid Vigor" on Accretions <www.accretions.com>. This is
      inspired and carefully arranged chaos. It's a tea party in a
      hurricane. It mirrors MF's cross-cultural hybridized life. He grew up
      in a Portuges/Japanese family. Raised Catholic in a Buddhist country.
      There is no stopping his material, it washes over you like a tidal
      wave of perceptions, splinters of influence, slivers of samples. He
      reminds me on this disc vaguely of Todd Rundgren, another maximalist,
      especially on his drug-induced/inspired journey "A Wizard A True
      Star" or on Vandergraaf Generator tossed into a busy street.

      [10] "Blue Yodel, Blue Heron" by Colorado poet from the
      Boulder/Naropa 'region'. This is great mythical story-telling with
      yodeling, political commentary, a great [Burl Ives] voice that
      rambles gently and patiently through a mythical tale of a blue heron.
      Highly recommended. Available thru: Baksun Books, 1838 Pine St.,
      boulder, CO 80302. "Bill Gates is the most 'natural' man in America."
      Highly recommended.

      [11] "I, Angelica" on Pogus <www.pogus.com> is more abstract
      explorations of the deteriorating terrain by this loose-knit ensemble
      of sonic explorers. Pogus used to be Sound of Pig [cassette only]
      label devoted to difficult and adventurous trips into the
      audiosphere. This poem by Jay Noya as read by Adam Klein reminds me
      viscerally of Eliot's "The Wasteland" with the kind of inspired
      melancholy you feel on Gavin Bryar's "Jesus Blood Never Saved Me."
      "Even then I closed my eyes to fix it in my head."

      [12] "The Best of Dimension 5" on dimension 5. Ethnomusicology
      Department hit by a twister. Categories and files rearranged. Mayhem
      ensues, it begins to make sense. With every laugh you become more
      nauseous. Unlikely soundbed mates make like Kim Fowley caught in a
      Firesign Theatre.

      [13] This is a piece BS did for an Elliot Sharp project called "State
      of the Union", "State of the Union 2.001" on EMF (Electronic Music
      Foundation) <http://www.emf.org> <EMF@...> This is a 3-CD set of
      post-consumer sound and text-based electric and electronic music that
      threads an entire critique of our modern life through its laser
      entrails. All profits go to the National Coalition Against
      Censorship, which has a job the equivalent of the repairman fixing a
      slight leak in the hull of the Titanic. Americans have decided that
      the world is the enemy and have taken to building trade barriers [as
      they speak of trade agreements - code for exploitations - and
      tariffs, and barbed wire borders and this incredible post-SDI rocket
      shield which will protect Americans from "lunatic" Muslims but not
      from themselves. They have bought into the entire idea of a virtual
      Maginot Line and since they know almost nothing about anyone's
      history they don't know how history made the French Maginot Line
      ridiculous and pejorative. This awesome display of inclusion by
      composer/multi-instrument musician & polemicist, Elliott Sharp, has
      collected one-minute music and sound works by 171 international
      avant-garde, both famous & less so, presents a colorful palette of
      noise, sound, blips, attacks on post-post-modernism, robotic poems,
      synthetic gurgles, rants, odes, meditations, post-punk quickies from
      a vast array of strategies, spirits, aesthetics, clans, tribes, alien
      nations, musical [un]styles, and unnamed genders. He describes the
      collection as "concrete, abstract, enraged, objective, caustic,
      soulful, sardonic, provocative -- all unfiltered, all clear." Volume
      One came out on vinyl sometime in the early 80s and was rereleased on
      CD with additional trax I seem to remember in the early 1990s. The
      cuts come so fast and furious and are so varied that you are cast
      instantly into the middle of NY somehow. With the frenetic pace that
      intoxicates as it exhausts, stimulates as it batters away at your
      ability to absorb so many shifts in style...

      BARBIE & HER PERILOUS ANATOMY [an excerept: V. The Beer & Barbie
      Devotion] I washed 3 weeks of dirty dishes piled in my tub for her,
      as Barbie (cat. # T34959687) recalled her early days of life in
      Taiwan, her fist around a colorfully unreal drink I'd prepared in her

      She made light of the massive configuration of Combat Roach Killer
      Discs glued to my morbid kitchen wall. "3 years worth." I tried to
      brag. A legacy of battles won & lost right there. "But why cover a
      whole wall with them?"

      "My way of keeping track of time."

      "You know, this much Combat," she said, "can make you impotent."

      & then I coaxed her into my tub of cheap, warm beer - "It's
      therapeutic." I said & made motorboat sputters to mock her eternal
      affections for the trappings of wealth.

      "Yea, right." She retorted, much less naive than adventurous. We
      floated there for a long time, unburdened of all weight & doubt. & I
      got drunk on her head by dipping her big coif of adjustable length
      hair into the cheap, warm beer & then sucking every inebriating
      molecule out of her big hair. Over & over. She said it was ok,
      something she could tolerate. "I've been through worse."

      & this routine came to pass so that I could no longer drink beer in
      any other manner. This was how I got drunk. OK? & this habit managed
      to keep me out of many bars where drinking was still done in more
      conventional ways.

      [14] There are very very few bands and voices that hold up over a
      period of 20 years especially those that arose out of punk or disco.
      Blurt, like the Fall, are one of those anomalous sonic-poetic
      mysteries, consistently sounding both rudimentary and sophisticated,
      rhythmic and improvisationally complex, poetic in that both write
      lyrics that beat 99% of all spoken word. The words allude and
      instigate, are universal and about things happening right now. Ted
      Milton is a kind of humanoidal Frankenstein poet combining the
      inspired lunacy of Leon Thomas and the anarcho beatness of Kenneth
      Patchen. "In the dank shadow of the church of bankŠ"

      [15] "Totally Corrupt" on Giorno Poetry Systems in his Dial-a-Poet
      series. This is the best, really the only great great disc from
      Giorno [includes nice material from Frank O'Hara, Sylvia Plath, Ed
      Sanders, , Ken Kesey, Charles Olson] Bukowski became his act and yet
      never succumbed to it. Maintaining a kind of pugilistic presence
      despite a thin almost poeticlly effeminate voice. That a guy that
      ugly [and talented] could get [what he said] were great babes was a
      more important aspect of his message when I ws 17 than the
      second-string Celine nihilism of his fiction. "They sit banal and
      depraved waiting to be institutionalized."

      [16] "Redoing Childhood" Kill Rock Stars <www.killrockstars.com>,
      2000 Having tried to read Acker earnestly - and failing - and having
      seen her read in the pallid flesh I was all set to expect the worst.
      I was going to hate this because of what came before. I had even
      satirized her in my own writings as the self-declared offspring of
      William Burroughs [see Crimes of the Beats,
      <http://www.autonomedia.org>]. But beyond Acker's pretentious pomo
      declarations embracing dysfunction as redemption, and despite her
      post-punk-Goth persona that rolled out the black carpet to
      appropriately set her stage - there was even a little coven of
      wan-fleshed Goths at her NY Tower Books reading, 1995 - I was really
      drawn in by her readings on Childhood. The excellent opening cut,
      "President Bush", an allegorical Borgesian denunciation of Bush [Sr.
      but why not Jr. as well] and ALL dictators offers Acker's voice in
      the suspension of reverb, lending it an other worldly timbre that
      allows her to sound like a self-effacing prophet "with an irony that
      is ferocious." I found the entire CD poignantly speculative but
      strangely touching as well. Her search for self in an over-cited,
      satire saturated, decontextualized, hyper-mediated, and negotiable
      reality to be, ironically, tender and emotionally generous. Her
      reality is neither sci nor fi but some kind of rhizomic journey
      through a field of bad post-Burroughs dreams where you wend your way
      through Alphaville, Interzone, and the Torture Garden using brain
      scans as navigational tools. Mythology not as fiction but as a way of
      rendering our malaise visible. The profound imagination at work here
      is something I never felt reading her texts. Her spoken words offer
      her a mobility usually only available to a Rimbaud or an astronaut.
      She negotiates her way through a labyrinth of textual planes,
      appropriated myths, recuperations of awareness through neo-Catholic
      suffering and decadence, and fanciful Borgesian plot turns. She has
      the courage and integrity of facing her confusion - the confusion
      between being and moving, buying and becoming. And so, it must be
      said, she manages, through magic of a dramatically blasé delivery, to
      bring what I once considered pretentious and boring to life beyond
      life. Her voyage - even her "Face To Face With Death" - ultimately
      becomes "our" voyage. And that is to be commended. "In my search in
      my self / I found nothingŠ"



      * Iris [aka Bit Tonic at Sprawl in London> whose "Little Red Riding
      Hood" I played recently notes: "hi bart, thanks man! solo LIFE ep to
      come later in year on Consume, 2 tracks on the upcoming bip-hop
      comp... you'll get them as soon as they're out :) cheerio, iris"

      * Caged by Cagean Copyrights: A small note in the dutch newspaper,
      Volkskrant about musician Mike Batt [The Planets] being sued by the
      John Cage Trust and Edition Peters for copyright infringement -
      PLAGIARISM! - because on his album "Classical Grafitti" he recorded
      one minute of silence!!! The plaintifs feel that Batt was a little
      too inspired by Cage's 4'33" [1952]. This is rubbish! This is like
      branding open space. Like corporate logo watermarks in your drinking
      water, like a Nike logo inside someone's dreams.... I dunno, I get
      the feeling that Cage would have never approved of this... but then I
      didn't know Cage the business animal...

      * The more the US govt. is wracked by doubt regarding its many
      anti-world stands and actions, the more it pays to totally deny any
      nagging dubiosity as unmanly and unbecoming a world power. Show doubt
      and you reveal an Achilles heel.

      * It seems AMTRAK, America's funny answer to public transport, is
      going under. They have been trying to snuff it for about 20 years.
      And finally Amtrak has succumbed to market pressures. It reveals the
      whole calamity of having privatized enterprise provide public
      services. There is an inherent conflict of interests, an economic
      tautology that is unreconcilable - the stock holders want profits,
      the consumers want service. I can write a book about all the annoying
      and comical trips I took over an 18-year period on Amtrak trains. Its
      failure is as much a failure of bureaucratic imagination as it was a
      done deal that started in the 40s [see the film "Who Killed Roger
      Rabbit"] when GM set its sights on killing mass transport to ensure
      its market share of car sales. This is what happened here as well.
      And since trains are much cleaner than equivalent cars, and since the
      US did not sign on to Kyoto, it just means dirtier air and more
      profits for hospitals and doctors Š

      [Thanx to Eddie Woods for sending this]

      Before I start this poem, I'd like to ask you to join me in a moment
      of silence in honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and
      the Pentagon last September 11th.

      I would also like to ask you to offer up a moment of silence for all
      of those who have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured,
      raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes, for the victims in
      both Afghanistan and the U.S.

      And if I could just add one more thing...

      A full day of silence for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who
      have died at the hands of U.S.-backed Israeli forces over decades of
      occupation. Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi
      people, mostly children, who have died of malnourishment or
      starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S. embargo against the country.

      Before I begin this poem, two months of silence for the Blacks under
      Apartheid in South Africa, where homeland security made them aliens
      in their own country Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima
      and Nagasaki, where death rained down and peeled back every layer of
      concrete, steel, earth and skin and the survivors went on as if
      alive. A year of silence for the millions of dead in Viet Nam - a
      people, not a war - for those who know a thing or two about the scent
      of burning fuel, their relatives' bones buried in it, their babies
      born of it. A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos,
      victims of a secret war ... ssssshhhhh .... Say nothing ... we don't
      want them to learn that they are dead. Two months of silence for the
      decades of dead in Colombia, whose names, like the corpses they once
      represented, have piled up and slipped off our tongues.

      Before I begin this poem,

      An hour of silence for El Salvador ... An afternoon of silence for
      Nicaragua ... Two days of silence for the Guetmaltecos ... None of
      whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years. 45 seconds of
      silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas 25 years of silence for
      the hundred million Africans who found their graves far deeper in the
      ocean than any building could poke into the sky. There will be no DNA
      testing or dental records to identify their remains. And for those
      who were strung and swung from the heights of sycamore trees in the
      south, the north, the east, and the west... 100 years of silence...

      For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half of
      right here, Whose land and lives were stolen,

      In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek,
      Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears. Names now reduced to innocuous
      magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of our consciousness ...

      So you want a moment of silence?...

      - Emmanuel Ortiz 9.11.02


      * "plus another few hundred when it hits the BSI list!" Ezra

      Send all sound material for airplay and review to:
      Wreck This MeSS
      Radio 100 / Radio Patapoe
      bart plantenga
      Zeilstraat 23 / II
      1075 SB Amsterdam
      the Netherlands


      Some of my playlists can be found at 3am Magazine
      <http://www.3ammagazine.com> under the title "Radiophotogram: Visual
      Radio". Also posted is a depth-of-focus interview with Judy Nylon. To
      appear soon: excerpts from my scandal-delicious paris novel, PARIS
      SEX TETE, a review of the spoken word works of Roberto Valenza...

      "For a more international, commercial feel, try 3am Magazine. . . .
      The cosmopolitan, rive gauche quality of the site is wonderfully
      obvious. From 'cutting edge short fiction' to political satire and
      music reviews, 3am is a dream publication for the young, literary and
      clued-up, and it counter-balances nicely the London/New York
      publishing behemoth." o Bill Broun, The Times (Monday April 30 2001).

      "Cool ezine 3am is worth taking a look at for a dip into the edgier
      waters of literature on the net." o Michelle Pauli, The Guardian


      CONTACT ninplant@... FOR REMOVAL

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