Saturday, May 28, 2005

"Psychotics all over the fucking lawn," he said. But all I saw were cicadas.

Interesting things can happen on a road-trip! Yes, I, Marissa Ranello, took a 120 hour round-trip on a Greyhound. Yes, I dragged a child along with me. Inhumane? Perhaps. Interesting? Fuck yes. And let me tell you--sitting in the front seat of a Greyhound bus, with a driver who had his eyes closed(?), in the pouring rain, going around sharp bends, at 3 AM, in Ontario, with suicidal moose darting out in front of the bus, WAS INSANE.

That said, I want to thank Pat for communicating with my husband and the rest of ULA folk, and maintaining the blog, while I fucked off and brought my step-daughter on her first trip to the states. Awesome. But I'm back--and my freshly planted tomato plants will make me think of Pat's Grandma Rosie's Sunday pasta sauce.

It's Friday? DO you know what that means party people? Yes, oh yes, it's blog time. Ooooh, I said it. Say it with me now, BLOG TIME. Makes ya' feel all warm and tingly, doesn't it?

This week we've got great material!

I'm pleased to present poems from A.D. Winans. I do not use this term lightly: this man is a living legend. Indeed, Winans had friendships with Bukowski, Bob Kaufman, & Jack Micheline. However, this is NOT why I refer to him as a legend. Much like Lyn Lifshin, (who I respect and admire) Winans refuses to put himself on a pedestal. He continues to promote and contribute to the small presses. The lit world needs more Lifshin's and Winans'.




I have sat one too many evenings
watching old men and women
eat their last mealone eye on the dessert
the other on the obituary column


It was at the Hotel Entella
before it burned to the ground
her pubes dark as ash set apart
from sheet white thighs
her scent an orchid pinned
to a virgin's chest


the young Panamanian girl
sitting alongside her sister
in a slip and bare feet
reading a comic book
and chewing on bubble gum
at a brothel called The
Teenage Club
waiting on the first airmen
to arrive

six girls lined-up like bowling pins
rooted to their chairs
with zombie like stares
doing a woman's thing inside
a child's body


I remember still how wonderful it was
running to join each other's dreams
sharing our separate worlds of hope
in rooms where angels sang

I remember your doll house dreams
your lips colored with flowers
my hands tracing the valley of heaven
and finding them in your silent curves

it was a work of abstract art
a garden of unsurpossed beauty
where I became God himself
and having you
I did not need a son


Monks in
Have no need for


A.D. Winans is a Native San Francisco poet and writer. Member of PEN. Former editor/publisher of Second Coming. Author of over 45 books and chapbooks of poetry and prose. Work has appeared world-wide and been translated into nine languauges.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

This Blog Will Run On Time!

Faithful blog readers and whorish churls: Today, i stand before you with a heavy heart. Brothers and sistas, i have SINNED! Nope, i'm not referring to the Orgy of Orangevale, nor to the Massacre of Mountain Falls. It's something serious---a two day neglect of this blog (gasp!). Actually it's been a nine day neglect, but our goal here is to post every week, and we've miserably failed at it already. Instead of beating our hearts with clumps of barbed wire, or employing sexual self-humiliation like a military prison guard gone terribly wrong, i'd like to blame everything on departed editors Wred Fright and Pat King, for not infusing us newbies with enough Grueling Training and Iron Will needed to run this blog. Shame...shame...on them!!

Moving right along, instead of posting some creative writing now, and funching up the schedule i foolishly cling to, i will instead revert to the days of Proto ULA Blog, when Pat King, Karl Wenclas, and others would post ULA News and Gossip in this very space.

Those of you who have studied my life history and stalked me for countless hours (fools!) already know that in addition to co-editing this blog with Marissa Ranello, i am also webmaster of the ULA Fan Site. Now, i will take you on a spin through some of the site's new features.

The ULA site is at

You will be overwhelmed with brilliant graphics and textual wonders that may immediately blind the impure (sorry Dave!). If you have ADHD, like many of our critics, the front page is as far as you'll ever get into the site. If not, notice ULA Central, the huge red box with link to the current Monday Report and ULA affiliated blogs, including this one. I originally wanted to call that red box the ULA Hot Box, but fortunately cooler heads prevailed.

Now you will look to the blue strip of navigation buttons that will whirl you through the site. Click on the ULA ACTION button for our calendar of what's up, plus (and a lot of fools don't realize this) a collected archive of all ULA news and publicity, organized by year. Historians and lawyers, this is the place to look!

Click on ULA WRITING for many cool things, including Mid-Stream Samples (phrase borrowed from Jack Saunders), which is a collection of essays and creative work by ULA writers. It's just been updated so you'll find some fresh stuff, including one poem (wow!) from Marissa and a truly terrrible older story from my vault of questionable writing, dealing with incest, attempted homosexual rape, mild stalking, alienation, mental illness. The usual for me, sorry. Nearly a year ago, this story was rightly rejected by Word Riot, so it's got that much going for it! Anyway, every ULAer is (or will be soon) represented on this page (even the illusive Susan "Polyestra" America), so this is a truly groundbreaking and ambitious undertaking that we're uh, undertaking. Enjoy it!

Click on MEET THE ULA for our most popular page!! It answers the basic questions about the ULA, and offers exciting mini-profiles of all ULA members. To encourage petty jealousies within the group, some members even have two profiles! But, ya gotta look hard to find them, because i'm not going to make it easy on anyone.

Finally, our online ZEEN STORE (or "Zine Store" for you old-fashioned types who dislike having your English language messed with) offers ULA zeens like Slushpile, Literary Fan Magazine, and all the latest zeen and book projects from our individual members. Check it out and buy something today. It's cheap, fun, and you'll probably make a zeenstar's day.

Alright, that's all i want to talk about with you! The site has many other wonders, with mucho more still to come, but you'll have to explore that for yourself and keep on coming back. Of course, if you have any questions, input, scorn or love for me, email the man, Pat Simonelli, at

Hopefully soon we'll get this yer blog back on track with some writing. Look for it by Sunday May 29...

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Zen Baby Poems!

This week the Adventures blog gazes through the ears of Santa Cruz poet Christopher Robin. Chris is one of a handful of ULAers who reside in Northern California's Bay Area, including Urban Hermitt, Joe Pachinko, and myself. The ULA plans to become more active out on the Western Frontier, but for now, we scattered Cali folk can sit back, write poetry, enjoy the sun, and hope our fine state doesn't slide off into the Pacific Ocean before Governor Schwarzenegger figures out a plan to save us. That plan will probably include blowing up the Pacific Ocean, so i'm not too sure about that one.

Switching from Cali to Canada, i can assure faithful blog readers that Marissa is indeed alive and well. Her husband confirms what my clouded mind sorta forgot: that she is indeed on a trip, and won't be blogging for some time. Days, weeks, months, who knows how long you'll have to endure my uninterrupted presence on this blog? I'm getting a bit sick of it myself.

Therefore i shall pass ye over to one who needs no introduction, because i'm too tired and lazy to give it. Put your appendages together for...Christopher Robin!!


826 Valencia

She is wondering if her line breaks look pretentious

I can’t tell because I know nothing about line breaks

Went to a reading where the kids spend $40,000 a year

On grad school

But we showed up on the wrong night

Thank God

I wouldn’t have been able to handle so much oppression

Not while I have this good job staying awake

From ten p.m. to eight a.m. pissing out bad coffee

And the occasional poem

Girlfriend drunk on the phone asks:

Do I feel bad because I’m not a bum anymore

And have to turn people like me

Away from the hotel?

But a ten hour shift is too long to spend hating myself-

I will never be Dave Eggers protégé

Or should I say bitch?

I will never spit on people at 826 Valencia

Like that one who is “the mayor” now

He’s “Special Ed”-

When I pick up the 826 book it reads like garbage

And ask while she types her poetry into the computer:

“Is Eggers making money off these kids? Don’t you think

printing writing from kids who can’t write will give them

a false sense of themselves? These stories look like diary


“well he’s very good for a Special Ed kid…”

“Who, Dave Eggers? And shouldn’t it be about being a good

writer period? What if you’re disabled and can’t write for

shit? I know I’m no idiot-savant but neither is he and

where’s my book deal?”

I’m not putting the kid down

Don’t get me wrong

In fact I was a little jealous

I’ve been told by the finest doctors that I’m an idiot

and have no business walking upright-

When I leave she doesn’t say goodbye

But calls me later

Says she is trying to get into grad school

And does this synopsis sound good?

I don’t know

Ask Hirschman when he gets back from Italy

“I’ll give it a ten cuz you can dance to it”

and hang up the phone



A drunk who thought I wasn’t homeless enough

heckled me in the middle of my set-

He’d read the interview

He wanted blood…

I haven’t carried a bedroll in years-

He claimed Bukowski lost his talent

when he got off the park bench,

so I yelled into the Mic:







rattled and nervous,

I read Wide Open Fool,

the angriest I have ever read it-

said, “Buy my shit,” and sat down

It felt like a bomb-

I wasn’t getting the laughs I’m used to,

They didn’t want my levity-

Afterwards people started coming up to me

asking to buy my book

Money was coming at me from everywhere-

I sold every book I had

In a gesture of companionship

the heckler brought two wine glasses over to me

and set them down-

I don’t drink!

He yelled at me some more

And walked back to his friends

I thought of telling him the job

I had to look forward to back home

Was cleaning up llama shit in Bonny Doon-

I could have told him I’m King of the llama shit

King of the old ladies in the trailer parks

Where I crawl under houses

and vacuum up dead termites-

The ailing windup toy of suburban housewives

And master of lawnmowers-

Bright eyed with mud on my face
From the wheels of the tractor when it rains...

Instead we went back to our cozy room on the strip-

I had sex with the Muse

before she passed out drunk

From all the free booze-

I had 82 dollars in my pocket

I stuck a twenty-dollar bill in the nickel machine….thinking

It’s too bad that guy never spent a day on the streets himself

He will probably never drink himself to such good fortune



Fuck the somebody’s that called you a Republican in Spec's

because you’d eaten at an expensive restaurant

But you can bet they don’t live in the Tenderloin!

Fuck all the somebody’s…when I’m somebody I’ll

Fuck who I want! Fuck the typewriter wannabe’s

If you carve it in stone it still ain’t great!


Fuck the weight of your paper fuck your heavier ego

Fuck you *you’re nobody you don’t have a book*

Fuck your workshop one hundred dollars and

Check your instincts at the door

(You can’t teach this!)

Fuck J.J. Campbell because he rubbed

Shit on his balls and published it

I can say that

I don’t even know J.J. Campbell

Is he important?

Fuck me I am a minor embarrassment

I strive to be worse…..

I’ve sought refuge

In my own damaged brain

And I don’t have to commute

To get where I am

Fuck the condescending Cappucino losers

Who tapped on their laptops

Over A. Smiths anti-techno poem

At the Ugly Mug

And no one clapped…..

Fuck Michael T “he didn’t let you

Read anymore because you’re on section 8”

Love Mark Schwartz authentic King Curmudgeon

Of North Beach

Who won’t stay when I read

And hands me a book of bad jokes instead…..

Love Ferlinghetti sightings

stealing/and leaving

Zines at City Lights

love Bill T who never

Writes me a letter without a glass of wine

In his hand

Actual letters three years now

While we’ve been nobody’s together

His time is here!

Love Leroy cuz he’s got snap!

Love Marie K who looks like Edith Piaf

And will not leave the city she loves

Fuck Marie K if I had the chance!

Fuck any of you with your attempts to censor….

Fuck Karl for being too handsome…oh but

I would never fuck Karl!

Love Joseph ya big asshole with decades built small press

Bitterness be like me be positive!

Love the middle class woman in BC who drank too

Much wine laughed hard and bought two of my chaps


Love Sam I Am who only grinned big all night long

And when my girlfriend put her hand on his thigh

He grinned bigger

And so did I

Love Marco the Fin who lights the cigarette I gave him

in the early morning rain of San Francisco and says:

*this is the blues*

love Nicole for telling me:

*you’re such a Christopher Robin!*

and silly me thinking perhaps it is a compliment….



In 2000

I joined a local

Social recreation group

For the head injured

Hoping to make some authentic friends

When I arrived I realized

I already knew everyone there-

There were barbecues, board games

And free swimming on Wednesdays

Made me wish I knew how to swim

But I played along…

Then I met Jenny-

All of a sudden I was injecting testosterone

into my ass every other week

playing pool in every dive bar in town

holding the table, five, ten games in a row

and driving my new truck

to a ranch at 7 in the morning…

I didn’t know anything about horses or the inside

of a men’s urinal

but I played along…

Then I met the poets and started hanging

Out in a local laundromat every Friday night

shooing drunks away

From our mike

while encouraging 89 year old women

and white rappers

To give us their blessed truth

Then I’d spend the rest of the weekend

lying in bed
watching the same Woody Allen movies over and over…
the poets calling me
but never picking up

Last weekend a friend interviewing me

For a newspaper

asked if I was an

idiot-savant, and I replied

“ hell no! I listen to 80’s music

and pick scabs all weekend

while my girlfriend goes to bondage clubs,

how smart do you think I am?”



I put on Patti Smith

“so you wanna be a rock n roll star”

lit a cigarette

and watched Iraq explode on the BBC

Children pushed bicycles through four feet of water

in some foreign country I couldn’t quite

catch the name….

while we argued over fame and money

neither of which I care much for…..

“yeah, well most women would enjoy a free trip

to Vegas where I might actually sell some books!”

“but we’re paying for the trip!”

“you’re not my muse,” I yelled

“you’re fired! I’m going to make

a cup of coffee!”

“don’t you dare!” she yelled back

“you’re not smart enough!”

and rolled up a dish towel and

whipped me on my bare arms and legs

“this was a marriage of convenience

and it’s getting very inconvenient!”

she continued….

I switched to the weather channel

And watched New Orleans take on the floods-

The poet Joe Pachinko says,

according to his first hand information,

New Orleans is so evil, the hurricanes

always pass it by)

I wondered about the one in my kitchen….

“do you got gas money to go

to the free clinic today?” she yelled

from the bathroom

“we got eighteen dollars in the bank!”

“Get dressed! Let’s go!”

The next day we burned

The letter from the IRS

And set off the smoke alarm

I booked a flight to Vegas

to read poetry in a bar;

never sure what I should be more afraid of:

a terrorist strike, martial law,

a rigged election

or the bitter, angry muse

in my kitchen

brandishing a rolled up dish-towel…



“You know you got this real



You can’t go around on the streets

Being angry all the time

People will talk!”

“I gotta keep my street side

it’s how I defend myself

it’s how it’s always been”

“I don’t tell people what you’re really like

everyone thinks you’re an ANGEL

and you’re not on the streets anymore besides…”

“even so…”

“it seems like you can’t tell if you want to be

a grown-up or a child!”

“but it’s my lack of knowledge about the world

that makes me so damn charming”

“you wear BOY clothes and then


that people see you as a child!”





It’d be pretty pathetic of me

To put a suit on

Just to go down to the 7-Eleven

For a roll of toilet paper

And a frozen burrito



Fuck the Somebody's was previously published on an Alpha Beat Press broadside and in Christopher Robin's own zine.
Zen Baby and his other zines are available for two bucks cash from Christopher Robin, P.O. Box 1611, Santa Cruz CA, 95061. Also check the ULA Zeen Store for more of his titles, and other stuff by ULA writers.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Coup de pat?

Bloggos, i'm confused! It's Marissa's turn to escort you through another Underground Literary Adventure, but somehow, she's not here! Ahh, this reminds me of the time in my youth i was briefly kidnapped at the supermarket, by an eccentric old lady who thought i was lost. "Mother...where are you?!," i whimpered and screamed, until the old lady and i found mom just around the corner in the produce aisle... Hey, it was scary at the time!

Anyway, as part of my therapy i'm now going to play that old lady (complete with dentures, vericose veins, and plaid dress) and i will drag you around by the arm, until Marissa shows up again. I vaguely remember her sending me an email about taking a trip in May, but at this point i can't recall who or what it all means, and/or what i'm supposed to do about it.

Thus, i have declared martial law and seized control of the Adventures blog. I have installed Logan Mason as our writer this week, so here he is. Enjoy! -Pat S.


Excerpt from Southbound Out
by Logan Mason

The next morning I shook Faith awake as one went by. We didn't have time to make it but we woke. I played with the radio and after about an hour I found something: Good ol' Johnny Cash doin one about ramblin. Then, on cue, our ride was movin down the tracks; a hot shot to Spokane. I could feel it. No more junk, never again.

There was one train moving in front of the one we wanted, creeping slowly with gondolas of scrap metal, and empty, and with coal. We crossed over and got the second one, the Hottie...

Sitting on the side bars and the cross bars of a hollow well with double stacked containers of important cargo, including us, especially, we rode out, with Faith and the cat on one side - hidden - and myself on the other. The state of Washington. A nice change from Southern and Central California where folks are everywhere fondling their cell phones. Washington felt all right, especially at a good speed. We didn't have to hide most of the time. We passed beach and water and the recreationers of it, went thru mountain and trees, and a tunnel longer than I had ever been in. Numbered lights appeared on the right out of the pitch dark, under a thick cloud of sulfur from the front, counting down every quarter mile begining with #40, or #30 - I can't recall.

Out of the tunnel the rest of the state was empty and vast - all clear cut a very long time ago. Our train never stopped. Nothing was in the way. It was going 50 or 60, but it seemed like more. It feels faster on a train. Most of the time we spent it up top on the grid. I laid my legs out over the space between the cars with feet kicked up on the other side. Leaning back I could feel the car in front turn before our car did the same. A fast winding beast of a train. She had style, going fast. It reminded me of Sex and Heroin; but it was it's own, and we were on for the ride. It was as simple and fleeting as that.

She looped sharp in a U, we were about half way back, and I was stretched across the cars in my brimmed hat blowing harp. Directly across a small valley the conductor hung his head out looking across the U at me. For him it must have been like a time warp with my getup, I thought. An escape to the past. And it was a funny thing but I knew we were safe.

We stopped once in Wenatchee then picked up again. It was one of the best rides of my life. I was doing good. Then I looked down at my pack and the front pocket was flip-flapping open over the exposed rushing bones below. I had lost some important items out of my supply because of some simple stoned carelessness. Among the most important was helpful information I had to aid to me along in my traveling; not something you can buy. And as I was headed to Chicago next, into the throbbing busy heart of all the railroads, I lost some stability with it gone. I lost other things too, but I had to let it go. How could I dwell when it was just stuff and we had already lost a friend? But there was a theme settling into the trip, gradually realizing us. I resolved to re-acquire what I needed in Spokane, and it really wasn't so bad; in a way it was cleansing.

Nineteen or twenty hours later we were in Spokane, the city I was born in. The train stopped in the outskirts, waited, pulled ahead slow. Then Faith screamed! Bowser's leash was caught on the tracks and he fell under the train. Quickly I turned around to see his kitten face looking up pleading to me - meowing - then covered up by the train. I jumped the side of the well and hit the ground, found Bowser underneath stuck still in the same spot and tried calling to him to come to me but he was frozen. And the train was picking up a little speed. A set of wheels passed and I had a few more moments before the next and I went under. Terrible exciting blissful panic entered into me half under the train when I grabbed the cat and tried pulling him out but the wound up leash held us back. For a quick second we were fucked! Then I pulled hard, and got him out. He dug his claws into my shoulder and we ran back to the well, now four cars ahead.

I saved Faith's cat and she was thankful and Bowser and I were too.


LOGAN MASON was born Spokane Wa., January 11, 1980.
Lived in Concord Ca. age 5-16, Antioch Ca. 16-21.
Lived in Humboldt county and traveling since 2001.
Been riding trains 4yrs., Writing 3yrs.

Possesions include one dusty pickup with shell, ropes,
tarps, canned and dry food, machetes, etc. One all
purpose traveling pack/home, with sleeping bag, etc.
Three hundred dollars.

To his credit he has No children, No traps, some
warrants, a couple of pictures and a couple of short
films on Super8, a stapled skull and whiplash.


Sunday, May 01, 2005

May Day Surprise!

Hello, Adventures Blogheads! This week we have a very exciting treat for you. Couple weeks ago we served up a yummy Stir-Fry Brass Horse, but with names like Simonelli and Ranello, we've got to turn this blog into an Italian Deli just once. So, like my dear Grandma Rosie, i will set you a place at the table and force you to eat Parroove Sandwich!

Now, what the funk is Parroove Sandwich, you ask? Like Grandma Rosie i smack you upside the head and wash your mouth out with soap, for swearing. Then, i hug you, kiss your cheeks, and teach you about this strange world we live in. Parroove Sandwich, my dears, is a dramatic monologue/sci-fi story by Tom Hendricks, nestled between two Frank Walsh sonnets.

If this doesn't satisfy your appetite for strange and energetic low-carb lit, then you are a gluttonous bastid, and just the kind of person we love around Grandma Rosie's Kitchen. Oh, and around the Adventures Blog too. Bless your fat little hearts, and enjoy!



(An homage to L=A=N=G-U=I=S=H poetry)

by Frank Walsh

She said she thought the drummer who

pilots a SEPTA bus now and back

in the ‘80’s raped a dominatrix

according to the dominatrix but at least

not the same one, jerks off while he talks

to her on the phone, you got to be

joking I said into my phone,

not the same phone, but I’d hope

he swabs the receiver down

with alcohol if it’s a public pay phone.

It’s not serious, it’s only a commercial,

a movie sequel, a stuffed dodo, a nervous

tick not brought on by sanctions until now

against the children for over eleven years.



Parroove by Tom Hendricks

....."You ask about the Parroove. Well I will lie a little in what I say, but never much...
.....How far can you see from 10 miles up? Not far enough sir. My alien friend, it's larger, wider, bigger, much bigger, flatter - the entire planet is the Parroove - all but the north and south bottom seas. And they never freeze. Oh a little ice rolls up to the North Shore or South Coast occasionally...The real water is the Parroove.
..... And it's the only continent too. Sounds like my first lie. It isn't. The entire planet is a tide and a continent. Everywhere water and roots trying to hang on and not be torn away. Some ancient plants gave up roots long ago and float in seas of their own species. That one even totes its own 'bargeman' (he points) the famous Purple bumped Poison Arrow Frog...But MOST plants hang on.
.....Winter? No. Summer? None. Instead 2 rainy seasons. Rains first wash over the northern hemisphere. The current runs south. The sea floats through the land. Then the North dries up and the water floods back North. South to north...Water is black and red but clear and clean. Pure to drink off any boat. No material in suspension. None. Everything that has been worn away has been worn away hundreds of millions of years ago.
.....The land under the high trees is as clean as a frozen desert. Nothing rots. It's all devoured. Nothing organic is unattended (for long). Everything is eaten every minute. Except for a few tasty morsels of rare sunlight that bounce from tree trunk to tree trunk till they are lost down below...
.....Water, vapor, steam, clouds, humidity - hardly room in the sky for another cloud. And never for golden sunlight. Clear sky? I've heard rumors of clear hours, cloudless sky, sunshine. I don't believe most of them...
.....The woods are deep... Roots, heavy and dense as rustic iron pipes. Canopy is high - thousands of feet high. Looking down its variegated like jagged river rocks covered in dripping moss.
.....The ground is sand mostly, 'pursand', damp sand. 100% pure, empty nothingness, unsalted salts - cleans you out!
.....Up the naked tree stalks, nothing - barely bark, then 500 feet high the warring insect zone starts with stinging wasps, fire ants, Bonethorn vines that look like millipedes, Spotted Orange Fungi acid coating everything, and here and there a munching Red Plated anteater. That's the border land that must be crossed to get to the plump leaves above it. No living thing can climb past and live....Or climb back down.
.....The swollen leaves and the living things swarming around them are the first canopy level, the buzzing zone, the infected wood. Every species here, is there somewhere. Millions and millions or more. Who knows. Never two spiders, worms, or creepers alike. How they find mates in all the confusion is a mystery to all (shakes head). Come walk this way...(Wood plank creaks)
.....Watch your head. It's second nature for us small native peoples. Yes we are a wirey race, the open pored albino, stilt dwellers. Yes we live on stilts, treehouse walkways. Walkways tarred with repellants that keep out the 'dangers'.
.....Your eyes widen? You've heard of jungle dangers. As if they were BIG monsters from storybooks. Nothing here is big - but little morsels can have big viciousness to compensate. Warriors are tough. They bite and claw hard to live. And there is a strain of virus for every biter. Plants stopped being prey a long time ago. Now whether it's animal versus plant or plant versus plant, it's all predator versus predator! Everything is always hungry. (Crack of wood ballister)
.....Be careful there. A little drop is a lost life. We're high up. And even the occassional quicksand at the forest floor won't stop your fall to death. (Shakes his head)
.....The biggest 'dangers' are the borers that attack and bite into your skin in sleep - never a trace but a bad dream; undersea snake coilers, jawgators, shock eels, during mating season - though who knows when those are; poison monkeys, army birds, blood thirsty mites...
.....How do we protect ourselves? Each danger has a tree zone. We avoid most, give in to some, fight what's left standing, at this high up...
.....These Trough plants are handy. Scoop out the top layer and they are perfectly harmless. Pure water collected in green sinks. Most important in the Desert Zone.
.....You've heard of the Desert Zone, of those 2 strips of barren land 47 degrees north and south of the equator bulge where the circling tropical winds die out, and stop between the rainy seasons. Things dry up. Water sinks in and disappears. Sand grows for a while. No man's land. It's jungle vanishes, hibernates into the tall clouds. Only a few bleached and petrifified hollow driftwoods left, desert bones. Could we tramp there - no one can and survive the dry and cold - we would hear nothing - they say - a storm of nothing. Perhaps some lie about that... I don't believe it either. Rumors.
.....We have a boiling pot of Carro. It's a flying fish, a delicacy with onion herbs and sap oil. Outsiders may take a while to settle to it. If you get sick the pursand will clean you out. Ha ha.
.....I see you itch. Your clothes sop and irritate your skin. Boils are likely. Nothing ever dries here. Nothing drains. Nothing can evaporate. Into what? What isn't wet? Those not born here never quite get used to it. (He shakes his head) Water to water, sop to sop...
.....My mate is this one (points to a woman and says to her) We have a sojourner. These wide-eyed ones are children and nephews, 'Survivorosettes". They think you are a monkey. (Shakes head)
.....Here's a bowl for your broth. Yes it's one of those bowls so well treasured in your world right? 'Gold times 1,000', say the rumors; weaved leaves, tarred with certain rare saps, jewel plant green, hard and water repellant Bowls that once dried (off planet) last forever - can never break.
.....We like trade. Everyone trades here (as he eats). All outsiders trade. I can see in your eyes that you have come for trade - bowls most of them, pursand some. Some smuggle water (shakes head again) very illegal.
.....Some trade once and never return.
Some trade often and never leave. This place is... kills many, exhilarates all!
.....First some juice, Jarra, liquor from the high clouds, then we'll trade. No? But no liquor, no trade. Eat. Then drink. Then trade. And don't fall, the liquor leans many!"


.....Parroove (the native pronunciation is 'Parroove-f' and it's the name of a planet-wide rain forest) is an excerpt from 'Writings in Science,' which is a sci-fi novel / anthology. The premise is this: Millions of years from now the Earth is dying and in the rush to flee, 1 man collects his favorite 'writings in science' to preserve Earth's legacy. This is one of those "Writings in Science!"

As for Tom Hendricks, he's an excerpt from Musea.


Frank Walsh Sonnet #2...

You poet can afford to take death,

birth, and love for granted, so

grow up and get with it, deepen,

there’s not much time to let

the others in on it, strike

up some deal with vigilance and urgency.

Everybody else wants to but is much too busy.

You’re an escape artist, you only feel trapped.

You deserve it, sleep, sleep on your back

with a brick-bat under the pillow.

Wash your skin, comb your tongue, cut your nose

off despite your face, she wants you down by five.

But the ears, keep the ears just as they are

like your last two bits, like a dirty old rabbit’s foot.



Frank Walsh sez: ..."was at the annual 100 Posers Read
at Robbins Bookstore a week ago this past Sunday which I participated in for better or for worse. I read stuff among them were these two sonnets from my century of the form, SONNETS WITHOUT BORDERS." Email: