Mike Jurkovic didn't write these ones. But he still rocks this party

Dear Anastomoo,
Please consider these poems “Domesticities,” “War,” “The Model,” “Trouble with Words,” and “Dusk” for Anastomoo.
My poetry has recently been published recently by the NCTE, Hudson View, and The Teacher’s Voice; my most recent full length collection, The Blooming Void, was published in the spring of 2010, and, I am currently studying poetry in the doctoral program at SUNY Albany.  I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Peter Fernbach




Domesticities

A home is a universe continually expanding
And echoing with the things that have come before:
An existential gumbo where the peppers
Taste like chicken sausage and the differences
Of each constituent part create a whole
That stays with parts when they leave, temporarily.

The walls aren’t just sheetrock and plaster
But eyes of judges that live and breathe:
They scream at me when the mortgage goes awry
And whisper about dreams when everyone else is asleep.

Likewise, every action is not what it seems
But a submarine’s periscope whose one eye
Hides the jangly engineering of the vessel below
And the wanton histories of the crewmen.

Thus, it was understandable, that tonight, at dinner
My wife’s specious approval of my curry chicken
And her curt refusal of any more, rang, for us
Like any other resignation and denial
And that my quickly souring mood confused my guests.

What I wanted them to understand, though
Wasn’t the way that grudges form
And feel like horse reins driven into your temples with nails
But the way that the spider migration across the lawn
(All the silk sparkling with stars and security light
On the back deck) mixed with just the right kind of champagne
Still have a way of eliciting many species of yes.



War

“War today is sleight-of-hand”
Said Grandpa Fernbach, lounging back
Finally safe, in that old leather recliner
In the dim, comfortable corner of our old house
Years before spleen and shrapnel
Finally tore up his insides.

And, like many things, this made superficial
Impact on my airy head until
One day, driving ninety, in my new toy
That cost too much, towards the country house
That we were struggling to keep afloat
I was driven from my lane
By a crimson faced Capitalist Warrior.
Wearing a Bluetooth, he spat regurgitation
All over a helpless windshield and into the heart
Of some hapless employee who hadn’t met
The bottom line.

For a moment, we were as close as two people
Might be across a large walnut desk in a dark
Boardroom shaking on the fate of thousands
Who don’t have a voice in the matter. His eyes
Made no apology for transgression: conscience
Had been sated in the name of progress.
And, he pushed ahead, relentless for more deals.

As he outdid my speed in his 2012
Hyundai Tucson, I thought “defeat
In a world war really isn’t the end of a country.”

Those on top have an army of lemmings
Killing themselves and each other
Sealing their deals and sending monthly payments
Who have no problem with these arrangements.



The Model

The guns on the warship must’ve measured
No more than half a centimeter in length
And three dust particles in width; but
The small victory my father and I
Pieced together was, for us, no less spectacular
Than August 24th 1940 was for the German people
When the Kriegsmarine finally commissioned the Bismarck.

And, the physical labor we muscled through
Generally high from the model glue
And camaraderie, was no less pains-taking
Than the work done at the Blohm and Voss shipyard
Between November 16th 1935 and February 14th 1939.

During the months that we transformed
Four thousand miniscule plastic parts
All meticulously labeled by their creator
From sheets of manufactured twigs
To a paragon of small scale engineering
We inscribed the vessel with a titanic pride
Probably out of proportion with its few ounces
But not dissimilar from the surge of German spirit
Coaxed by the fifty-thousand ton battleship.

The maiden voyage for our delicate miniature
From home to Grandma’s, was not unlike the breakout
Of the Bismarck from Gotenhafen on May 19th 1941.
Unlike the original, we were not under orders to disrupt shipping
Or exhaust naval forces, but we encountered resistance
From Grandpa, who had seen the real thing. A wave of his hand
Was as devastating to our morale as the RAF torpedo bombs
That splintered the deck of the ship in the waning days of May 1941.

And, just like the confused and drowning survivors
Who were rescued by the HMS Dorsetshire
I struggled against an overwhelming reality
To retain some of my immovable faith in my work.
As they all watched – Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa –
I took the product of my hours out to the ditch
By the driveway and, just to prove a point
Like Buddhist Monks with their laborious mandalas
Smashed my work irretrievably into the ground.



Trouble with Words

The trouble is that the words move
Soon as I commit them to page.

Giggly kindergarten words poke each other,
Wipe semantic snot on each others’ faces.

Even the college words refuse to behave –
Playing tricks on their so-called master.

The more there are in any set –
Poem, Essay, Novel, Opus –

The more likely a mutiny that turns all meaning
Round to its opposite.

Maybe that’s the joy of creation:
Surprise in what we thought was ours

And the constant recognition that all
Must go back from whence it came.



Dusk*

Perhaps Monet was right in painting millions
Of discrete blobs all adding up in the human mind
To one stable reality: Perhaps all of those things
We fix labels on – birth, marriage, death –
Are nothing but the blending, fragmenting
Of so many billions of atoms
That we have as much control over as the tides.

But the portrayal of San Giorgio Maggiore in afterlight
That hangs above my slow burning fire tonight
Reminds me that the opposite too is true:
The sum of our days leads to an impression
Greater than any haphazard collection of colored splotches.

Outside of this house, this home
There is the jolly anarchism of the American Night:
While I’m vaguely glad it’s there, Friday night
With its excesses and consequent regrets
Reaches me only as echoes, screams from the street.

The painting is a window on the past:
There was a time I stood in St. Mark’s Square
Trying to give the world the same transcendent
Quality as ‘Dusk’: poems that rose
The whispers of the water; poems that recognized
The ghosts that walk in daylight, silent; Poems
That penetrated the order beyond our sufferings.

Now the arrangement I seek is on a smaller order
And the crack of the wood in the fire
And the way it dances on the hardwood floors
Tread moments ago by my in-laws, is enough for me.

And, as her voice echoes through this modest room
Where I like to write – although the actual syllables
Are indistinguishable - the message is clear: Could I please
Stop what I’m doing and take in the pleasure of the setting sun.



*This poem was inspired by “Each New Beginning” by Michael Glaser – friend, mentor, Poet Laureate of Maryland 2004-9. Handjob 

At the opening
Of the very first drive-in
In Camden, NJ

I was sitting
With KariAnne Prentice
Hoping for a handjob

Right there
In the front seat
Of my Dad’s
Buick Eight,

A cherry roadster
Gleaming in the glow
Of Wife Beware

A British comedy of errors
Of which I remember
Nothing

But suspect, like all
Comedies of error
To be about handjobs
How many and by whom.

Did I mention she played piano?
Knitted scarves for a nickel
After the ’29 Crash,

Led the Girl Scouts
For two whole years
In the nimble art of hand craft.

She was cute, too.
Real cute.
The kind of girl
Who smiled in the rain.

A smile I still see
While placing this rose
On our headstone,

Hoping to lay
At her side again soon.

*

Curator

My duties,
As curator
For the Museum
of Modern Parking
never evolve.

Erode the union,
Clear the lot.
Turn back the mileage
Debauch doyennes.

Shill the artificial light
of future transportation,

Fill the tank,
Check the oil

Coin the convergence
of four lanes to one.

Massage the rubberneck,
Suck your blue poison

*

Lint

I have finally breached the point
where lint is not an embarrassment.
Look the other way if you must.
Cross the street if need be.

I’ve done all I can:
Separated this cloth from that.
Boys clothes-girls clothes
I’ve segregated colors.
And still the lint clings
like the sins on my sleeve.

Einstein knew insanity
And now so do I.
Cross the street if need be
Look the other way

*

Carry The Day

I can’t tell
What gets me up anymore,
Spirit or medication.

I’m not sure
Where the spirit’s flown
But the meds
are top shelf above the microwave
where tea and tonics abide.

Moxie or Plavix?
Gumption or Xanax?
Balls or another Bayer?

Methinks a fine balance of both
carry the day, though I tend to lean
more on the meds every Tuesday,
and Wednesday. And Fridays,
And Sunday’s when the friends arrive
with stimulants of their own.
And on days when,
The wife in panic,
I digest a couple more.

It’s only natural.
The human inclination
to not feel pain
or anything stressful for that matter.
And, when face to face
With the fountain of feel good,
We all dip more than one toe in the water.

We all take something, ‘fess up!
I’m not the only junkie
In this recovery room.

*

3:57

Y’know what? I’m gonna lean forward
and look down the tracks
Even though I know the train’s a-comin’
But I can’t cut against the grain all the time can I?

There’s gotta be a point of re-entry
To the human flux and perhaps this is it.
What makes me so elite to think
I can’t seek like everyone else.

Comfort. Water.
A higher plane of thinking.

What makes me so sure I’m right
or at least walking parallel the mouth-breathers,
The knuckle dragging populace
I’ve stooped to accompany on this errant journey,
Where gold counts for everything
and nothing’s free. Where the train
stops n stops n stops n starts

To lull you into an embryonic glaze
Of mother’s milk and broadband,
Brake fluid, and a genetic pre-disposition toward attitude.

C’mon man, you’re getting on a train, get with it!
This is no John Locke moment
where freedom hangs in the balance.
It’s the 3:57 you dope! The train you’ve been waiting for.

The most significant moral characteristic of a nation is its hypocrisy - Reinhold Niebuhr

All works of love are works of peace - Mother Teresa




Cece Chapman 3:51am Jun 19 ...definitely nothing and maybe no insight... a pen ad from ecuador... Keep away from the ocean www.youtube.com Killer whales beaching themselves in Ecuador... ...for people. The White King of Providence Plantation



The Black Emperor of Tuscaloosa
The Tasmanian Shadow
wanted

each button called the
police from where it sat

by the looks of things a
struggle took place and

the burglars trashed the
housecoat before escaping

officers are telling people:
be on the lookout for two

hardened career criminals
that are definitely at large
--------------------------------------

apples

the man jacking off (that's right) jacking off
with such abandoned joy he rinses his adam's
apple with jism is the equivalent of wilhelm
tell reaching for his quiver as the boy stood
hoping to feel juice leak down his forehead,
or odysseus watching when that feathery bolt
carressed the iron socket of each axe helve
like a womanly hand fondling a golden prize

--------------------------------------------------------------

Grail w/ Free Refills

Blessed Black Heel Bearer,
Take upon thy lips the
foundation of this gilt shaft.

Like those of beeves, thy long
pliant neck carries such exalted burdens.

Host my silent night's broken nativity
in thine open throat so meaty soft.

For you special gifts bulge
beneath bright tissue paper
in my high, gaudy places.

Drink me down until you spout me upward to the heavens.
Pour everything out of this my cup large and deep with holy grape.

You will not thirst thereafter, for it holds so much for only a dollar.
Theese pomes by KJ. He is as pure as the driven snow and only ever cathects his own ego and sometimes equality (this by Shipley not the author - the bio is decentred as in algerian paris.




Anastomoo Expanded Universe travelling/bi-polar/happycamper From: ""Jesse Shipway" @yahoo.com" <"Jesse Shipway" @yahoo.com> Add to Contacts To: jesseshipway@yahoo.com.au Submitted on 06/10/2011 - 03:35 Submitted by anonymous user: [118.208.205.70] Submitted values are: Name and Contact Information: Email: jesseshipway@yahoo.com.au Name: Jesse Shipway Phone Number: Address: 3 Glen Street City: Hobart State: Tasmania Postal Code: 7004 Country: Australia Submission Type: poetry manuscript Subject: travelling/bi-polar/happycamper Brief Bio:

Upload your manuscript File: File Upload: Synopsis:

It is about tetrameter filledeucalypt and with possum quarterpounder emajor love you all peace and love with god and allah and uhuru mazda.

Submission Date: Tuesday, June 7, 2011 - 07:52 Status: New The results of this submission may be viewed at: http://www.ablemuse.com/node/804/submission/2640 My mexican home




Addictions (6 lines)


A Golden Stater born and bred, I never eat
a meal
that lacks a salad-without greens, it's not complete.

My gal's from Texas, and her tastes and mine don't mix,
for I'm
a slave to chlorophyll; capsaicin is her fix.


The Gym Teacher's Sudden Bust Reduction (15 lines)


She hadn't any choice-
the biopsy had made that clear-
and yet she wasn't sorry that she had it done.

She'd sweated off each needless ounce of fat,
and cut her hair and nails,
and now she felt the process was complete.

Her goal had always been:
eliminate whatever isn't muscle kept in perfect tone.

They'd tipped her balance on the tumbling mat,
and flopped around when she was on her daily jog,
and bunched against her swinging arms,
and throbbed with every impact of her chest on the uneven bars.

The way she figured it,
she'd gone one better than those Amazons
who lopped off only one to ply their bows.


The Choice (350 words)


It's not irrelevant, believe me.

If you're a writer, the choice you make may tell you something you'd never know had the issue not been framed this way.

CHOOSE THIS:

You live every writer's fantasy.

Your books make the biggest hillock in the barnyard, and hardly anyone hears the other cocks for your crowing.

You win every prize, including one or two expressly invented to further populate your groaning trophy shelf.

Third World villagers who know no English know your name.

Each morning, a coin toss decides whether you wallow in royalty-generated Kubla Khan pleasures or write a few pages toward financing more.

Every writer's fantasy…while you live.

Before your skin gets pricked by the embalmer's needle, people start to wonder why they ever liked your books.

Ten years later, the billions of copies you once sold are, respectively, in landfills or in the afterlife for deleted e-books.

While your literary contemporaries are having their centennials celebrated, your name is a cipher to your own great-grandchildren.

OR THIS:

You live the tragicomedy of a person who fails at the one thing he cares about-in this case, being a writer.

No play or film script of yours is produced, no book released from any of the dozen publishers who hog The New York Review of Books.

On your deathbed, you wish you hadn't bothered.

Then a few mourners talk about your work, and influential friends of theirs seek the few volumes they can find.

And a cult becomes an industry becomes a mass movement.

Your stories and characters end up as common references, and you contribute more familiar phrases to the language than Shakespeare and King James combined.

In the distant future, successor intelligences, organic or cybernetic, think fondly back on your work after having neglected the other artifacts of Homo Sapiens.

THIS IS THE CHOICE.

The greatest possible appreciation, all now or all posthumously.

What if your career must follow one and only one of these paths?

Don't say it's not realistic.

Don't say it's not fair to ask.

CHOOSE.


Marshall M (6 lines)


Dear Marshall M has passed away,
His musings in abeyance;
His relatives and friends receive a presage.

To hear the last he had to say,
They soon arrange a séance;
As one might guess, the medium is the message.

Robert Laughlin



  Floaters


Fighter


Rock gut friend with unretracted elbows goin which way- every. She better not. Stay small in corner, might not notice. Keep curls dry might get slammed unbenounced to her. Other spew too, but not as good. She lose. Sugar and spice.

Painter

Everyday. Paint. Don’t look. See somethin’ not there say nothin’. Stay away go leave, he scream. No wall hanging there, only him. Pea green wall naked behind, in front room, don’t look there either. She’ll miss him and her in the tomato plant. Can’t go back and do it right.

Horse, chair dogbone, anyway but that. They said paint the line like this, she walked out. Line up for grab, no way. My way. Words paint dance stay between the line. They say. Bones is bones not death or sex. She said.

Hill-dweller

Hold steadfast girl. Make ends meet your furry four leg beasts lay in wait. Your bed. Your house. Your roof. Your head – over it. Keep tryin’.

Collector

Newspaper stacked to the roof she said it give her a secure feel. Lamp, dress, box, chairs piled high. Lots of secure there. Can’t find clothes or cat.

Dancers

Spends her time sitting in bush in tulle on stage, that is. She usually say it’s no never mind. She’ll stay there until the next chord or wink or nod. Resent later. Hard enough to find her center in mirror in class let alone on stage in tulle. She’ll stay in bush with skirt gathered over knobbly knees in hole sore as hell. Until she does. Too.

They ask if anything is wrong with her face is sad and crinkled. She say no, she’ll rearrange it by the time he come home.

Pack up meaningful and go.




Neila Mezynski Fighter Rock gut friend with unretractTrack listing All songs written by Willie Nelson, except where noted. "Ou Es-Tu, Mon Amour? (Where Are You, My Love?)" (Emile Stehn/Henri LeMarchand) – 2:43 "I Never Cared for You" – 2:18 "Everywhere I Go" – 3:50 "Darkness on the

Face>
of the Earth" – 2:33 "My Own Peculiar Way" – 3:37 "These Lonely Nights" (Chester Odom) – 3:29

"Home Motel" – 3:15 "The Maker" (Daniel Lano


is) – 5:08
ed elbows goin which way- every. She better not. Stay small in corner, might not notice. Keep curls dry might get slammed unbenounced to her. Other spew too, but not as good. She lose. Sugar and spice. Painter Everyday. Paint. Don’t look. See somethin’ not there say nothin’. Stay away go leave, he scream. No wall hanging there, only him. Pea green wall naked behind, in front room, don’t look there either. She’ll miss him and her in the tomato plant. Can’t go back and do it right. Horse, chair dogbone, anyway but that. They said Grang Guinol Tasmania Hits the Right Note paint the line like this, she walked out. Line up for grab, no way. My way. Words paint dance stay between the line. They say. Bones is bones not death or sex. She said. Hill-dweller Hold steadfast girl. Make ends meet your furry four leg beasts lay in wait. Your bed. Your house. Your roof. Your head – over it. Keep tryin’. Collector Newspaper stacked to the roof she said it give her a secure feel. Lamp, dress, box, chairs piled high. Lots of secure there. Can’t find clothes or cat. Dancers Spends her time sitting in bush in tulle on stage, that is. She usually say it’s no never mind. She’ll stay there until the next chord or wink or nod. Resent later. Hard enough to find her center in mirror in class let alone on stage in tulle. She’ll stay in bush with skirt gathered over knobbly knees in hole sore as hell. Until she does. Too. They ask if anything is wrong with her face is sad and crinkled. She say no, she’ll rearrange it by the time he come home. Pack up meaningful and go. Neila Mezynski GRINDLEY


Steven Fowler
The Red Museum








Volume 4: Open Issue



Volume 3: Recession Poetics




Volume 2: Handwritten



Volume 1: Anastomoo

modern verses for tears

after a certain interruption
people have symptoms

of analgesics
of a search for money
of a desire to be not for profit

how to be able to take what is needed
when being for profit and not turning one?

good small black dogs are not cheap to set
down on a front lawn clean as a red bicycle

all the good home movies are just of children doing
nothing with the fresh snow melting on their jackets

in the future everyone might drive cars as
sensitive to fate as makeshift wooden sleds

that is the problem with wanting control is
the skill of letting go is considered obsolete

what is to be done

when everything breaks down?
when the music crackles apart?
when the hand drops the ball?

remember not to hold on for life while it is still dear
or all of us will circle time in the same old clunkers forever

------------------------------------------------------------

super power

in an effort to stay alive our hero
recycled all of his inner resources
to rekindle that uncanny ability of
never giving up on giving up what he
loved, which was the agony of each ray
gun boring a new warp in his spine,
the hair of a gorgeous woman floating
on a pool of blood under her cold skull,
and his belief that no one in metropolis
cared to estimate the heart of its loser

-----------------------------------------------------

the plaque on bob's memorial

in the middle of the mourn...

he'll be here stiffening
flat against this flower lousy
earth as the chisel plows black
all the goddamn soup crying night

here lies bob taylor
his cock was a wailer,
a blind teiresias blurting
out heavenly soothsayings
that made terrible swells in a head
soaring above such old, wrinkled dugs

a black girl once said he should do porn
that his parts were beautiful business people
calling in connections to rise up in the world,
sharing their private jets with anyone willing
to open their eyes to such slick propositions

others simply could not pull themselves together
without the thought of bob stirring up great sorrow
with that butter churning eye of his twitching above a
mouth whispering to say the flames licked the wall is
not a personification of the paint peeling inside of us

bob loved to laugh
the punchline of that
aborted fetus joke made
even the most bereaved
wail even harder, making
his work that much easier...
where he got off gracing our
faces with such brilliance, we
may never know for certain

if possible, bob would have wailed at his own funeral
the warm, tumbling blues, dangling coruscant on the edge
of his cheek as that timber made thing slithered into the seventh rib of the earth, would've been worth every zero

since bob is not here, & neither are we, rest here a moment
take in this memorial of a t-rex sodomizing a sick triceratops
after all, everyone tries to atone for the tiny shriveled things
near their hearts that always seem to come in twos. bob did.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Bio: KJ is a common man without fanfare.

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WhilKarl Marx your litKarl Marxrary contKarl MarxmporariKarl Marxs arKarl Marx having thKarl Marxir cKarl MarxntKarl Marxnnials cKarl MarxlKarl MarxbratKarl Marxd, your namKarl Marx is a ciphKarl Marxr to your own grKarl Marxat-grandchildrKarl Marxn. OR THIS: You livKarl Marx thKarl Marx tragicomKarl Marxdy of a pKarl Marxrson who fails at thKarl Marx onKarl Marx thing hKarl Marx carKarl Marxs about-in this casKarl Marx, bKarl Marxing a writKarl Marxr. No play or film script of yours is producKarl Marxd, no book rKarl MarxlKarl MarxasKarl Marxd from any of thKarl Marx dozKarl Marxn publishKarl Marxrs who hog ThKarl Marx NKarl Marxw York RKarl MarxviKarl Marxw of Books. On your dKarl MarxathbKarl Marxd, you wish you hadn't bothKarl MarxrKarl Marxd. HKarl Marxr goal had always bKarl MarxKarl Marxn: Karl MarxliminatKarl Marx whatKarl MarxvKarl Marxr isn't musclKarl Marx kKarl Marxpt in pKarl MarxrfKarl Marxct tonKarl Marx. ThKarl Marxy'd tippKarl Marxd hKarl Marxr balancKarl Marx on thKarl Marx tumbling mat, and floppKarl Marxd around whKarl Marxn shKarl Marx was on hKarl Marxr daily jog, and bunchKarl Marxd against hKarl Marxr swinging arms, and throbbKarl Marxd with Karl MarxvKarl Marxry impact of hKarl Marxr chKarl Marxst on thKarl Marx unKarl MarxvKarl Marxn bars. ThKarl Marx way shKarl Marx figurKarl Marxd it, shKarl Marx'd gonKarl Marx onKarl Marx bKarl MarxttKarl Marxr than thosKarl Marx Amazons who loppKarl Marxd off only onKarl Marx to ply thKarl Marxir bows. ThKarl Marx ChoicKarl Marx (350 words) It's not irrKarl MarxlKarl Marxvant, bKarl MarxliKarl MarxvKarl Marx mKarl Marx. If you'rKarl Marx a writKarl Marxr, thKarl Marx choicKarl Marx you makKarl Marx may tKarl Marxll you somKarl Marxthing you'd nKarl MarxvKarl Marxr know had thKarl Marx issus @ eBay Join eBay Today Folders[Add a new folder] Inbox (6) Drafts (1) Sent Spam[Empty all the messages from the Spam folder] Trash[Empty all the messages from the Trash folder] Search Shortcuts My Photos My Attachments Chat [Hide] I am Available 0 Online Contacts [Add] No contacts online right now. Start a New Chat Settings Go to Previous message | Go to Next message | Back to MessagesMark as Unread | Print Flag this message SubmissionWednesday, 8 June, 2011 7:56 AM From: This sender is DomainKeys verified"Omar Azam" View contact details To: "Shipley Shipway" ---------------------------- pre-syllabic ---------------------------- I live in a gutted cage the size of a gerbil giant. My neighbors are plaster, electric hum, and neoprene. I entertain myself with pixels of impossibilism. My eyes hurt outdoors. I lock myself away, dreaming of paleness whiter than light, solutions weightier than might. Somehow the bats soothe me. Flying skeletons costumed in human hairpieces and pearlescent extensions, their cavities are new and fresh, I a speechless barn burner, pre-syllabic. ---------------------------- traction control ---------------------------- I wonder if protective devices endanger me as I cruise around the city-sized suburban parking lot in the roaring rain. I have disabled traction control and I am hydroplaning diagonally, calling closer and closer to release, moving, pitching downwards into a velocity unbreakable. I enter a concrete canopied canyon, and to my horror the grade is increasing, and my brake is useless now. I shift into 3rd player mode, and now I am outside of myself, have dismissed this jalopy into the resigned dustbin of history. I watch with horror as my vehicle tumbles over the cliff where the stop sign politely demands compliance, and bashes headlong into a concrete basement of an unmoving office building. The statuaries have won again, have succeeded in diverting our reckless dreams of escape and unrestricted landscapes. I answer to the jury now for my irresponsibility, for my failed judgment, for my wooden implacability. ---------------------------- Monday Morning at my cube ---------------------------- I’m already starting to care too much about this place. I tell you, Monday is my mental vacation day. Let everybody think my body is attached to my mind, when in reality, my mind soars with my immortal feelings and trains of thoughts. I will write about whatever I want, as long as I feel it personally. I am so alienated from my feelings. Jonathan only has good feelings, it seems. There is no place for feeling bad in his life. I just blew my nose. It is a blessing to have a lot of mucus secretions. It keeps my tracts moist and flushes away toxins. Amazing how my kids, many kids, have brilliantly copious mucus membranes. They cry and run their noses constantly. And we scoff at that. How misunderstood children are, how we are turned against our childhood, slowly and surely.Karl Marx not bKarl MarxKarl Marxn framKarl Marxd this way. CHOOSKARL MARX THIS: You livKarl Marx Karl MarxvKarl Marxry writKarl Marxr's fantasy. Your books makKarl Marx thKarl Marx biggKarl Marxst hillock in thKarl Marx barnyard, and hardly anyonKarl Marx hKarl Marxars thKarl Marx othKarl Marxr cocks for your crowing. You win Karl MarxvKarl Marxry prizKarl Marx, including onKarl Marx or two Karl MarxxprKarl Marxssly invKarl MarxntKarl Marxd to furthKarl Marxr populatKarl Marx your groaning trophy shKarl Marxlf. Third World villagKarl Marxrs who know no KARL MARXnglish know your namKarl Marx. KARL MARXach morning, a coin toss dKarl MarxcidKarl Marxs whKarl MarxthKarl Marxr you wallow posthumously. What if your carKarl MarxKarl Marxr must follow onKarl Marx and only onKarl Marx of thKarl MarxsKarl Marx paths? Don't say it's not rKarl Marxalistic. Don't say it's not fair to ask. CHOOSKARL MARX. Marshall M (6 linKarl Marxs) DKarl Marxar Marshall M has passKarl Marxd away, His musings in abKarl MarxyancKarl Marx; His rKarl MarxlativKarl Marxs and friKarl Marxnds rKarl MarxcKarl MarxivKarl Marx a prKarl MarxsagKarl Marx. To hKarl Marxar thKarl Marx last hKarl Marx had to say, ThKarl Marxy soon arrangKarl Marx a séancKarl Marx; As onKarl Marx might guKarl Marxss, thKarl Marx mKarl Marxdium is thKarl Marx mKarl MarxssagKarl Marx.


Adapted from Poems by Robert Laughlin, Chico, California where the rain is still coming down and Professor Azam my main main in the Caucuses Bclass/indigo/pulchritude. Loce both oy boys like I was from San diego daoist david lee roth integer provostsamuraiwaimeaheightscholl where I actully went, shiela




Anastomoo is edited by Jesse Shipway. Jesse lives with his family in Hobart, Tasmania.









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