WRECKing Words in the Way [playlist & more]
- 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 
Storyline > Bob Holman 
Hot roddin & Tux's & False Flags > Roberto Valenza 
CIA > Mikhail Horowitz 
The Bar > Robert Ashley 
New York > Jose Padua 
+ Assfucker #1 & #2 > Vincent Gallo 
+ I Think the Sun Is Coming Out Now > Vincent Gallo 
Looks Like its Going to Rain > Ken Nordine 
Down The Drain > Ken Nordine 
Science Boy > Marcelo Radulovich 
Intro Blue Heron > Jack Collom 
The Railway Station Fire > If, Bwana & Adam Klein 
Coco the Coconut > Bruce Haacke & Miss Nelson 
Barbie & Her Perilous Anatomy > Black Sifichi vs b/art 
+ Fantastic Literature > If, Bwana 
Church of Bank > Blurt 
Cloud 9, I Live in a Neighborhood of Murderers > Charles Bukowski 
+ Goo Pond > If, Bwana 
Face to Face with Death > Kathy Acker 
 "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.
 "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
 "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>.
 "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 hand "Cannot inveigle angelic codes"
 "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
 "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
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
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
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.
 "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.
 "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:
 "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.
 "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."
 "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."
 "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
 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
 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 bank"
 "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."
 "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 nothing"
* 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" . 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
* A MOMENT OF SILENCE, BEFORE I START THIS POEM [excerpt]
[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
THIS PLAYLIST GOES OUT TO OVER 1500 READERS-EYEBALL "LISTENERS" per WEEK*
* "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
Zeilstraat 23 / II
1075 SB Amsterdam
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...
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publishing behemoth." o Bill Broun, The Times (Monday April 30 2001).
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SDI > SELF DESTRUCTION INSURED >
CONTACT ninplant@... FOR REMOVAL
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