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 New Novel Discovered by William Shakepeare new poems by dante discovered> 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) – 5:08ed 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 Anastomoo is open again. Let your sensual creativity engorge my site. Sweet nothings to anastomooATyahooDOTcomDOTau. I promise to respond with intense passion and delectable honesty 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. Addictions (6 linKarl Marxs)	My gal's from TKarl Marxxas, and hKarl Marxr tastKarl Marxs and minKarl Marx don't mix, for I'm a slavKarl Marx to chlorophyll; capsaicin is hKarl Marxr fix. ThKarl Marx Gym TKarl MarxachKarl Marxr's SuddKarl Marxn Bust RKarl Marxduction (15 linKarl Marxs) ShKarl Marx hadn't any choicKarl Marx- thKarl Marx biopsy had madKarl Marx that clKarl Marxar- and yKarl Marxt shKarl Marx wasn't sorry that shKarl Marx had it donKarl Marx. ShKarl Marx'd swKarl MarxatKarl Marxd off Karl Marxach nKarl MarxKarl Marxd KARL MARXvKarl Marxry writKarl Marxr's fantasy…whilKarl Marx you livKarl Marx. BKarl MarxforKarl Marx your skin gKarl Marxts prickKarl Marxd by thKarl Marx Karl MarxmbalmKarl Marxr's nKarl MarxKarl MarxdlKarl Marx, pKarl MarxoplKarl Marx start to wondKarl Marxr why thKarl Marxy Karl MarxvKarl Marxr likKarl Marxd your books. 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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 in royalty-gKarl MarxnKarl MarxratKarl Marxd Kubla Khan plKarl MarxasurKarl Marxs or writKarl Marx a fKarl Marxw pagKarl Marxs toward financing morKarl Marx. , I nKarl MarxvKarl Marxr Karl Marxat a mKarl Marxal that lacks a salad-without grKarl MarxKarl Marxns, it's not complKarl MarxtKarl Marx. 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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