This growl the fatherland we first stalked,
this scowl the mother lode we first imagined
solid day duties hurried past gene-spotted nights.
We did not invent this theme.
Film on the fives. Ancient mutterings slow to neutralize.
Hearing the herd, my dear, splashing past muddled urges. But death
in sacred surges singing its skilled and perfect pitch
the cold seize of an extinct sturgeon's Adriatic strain
spoiling the forgotten flesh inked in drama,
this drama of Bolington's wet stream.
Spoiled ugly miner's eye growing green, slowly gone...
The poet choked. The painting dried.
Against the gray ash folded hills his Virginia sky grew black,
chasing spit, there was nothing that lived that night that caught
that's it, so much as a breath of slack.
We reconcile the concept of withering time
racing faster in toil than we ever swore it to be,
against the yellow years of a faster tomorrow
no relic found can improve lost liberty.
WE MOURN THE PASSING. Allen Ginsberg's dead, quivers no more. The poet laureate of the Beat Generation died Saturday at his home in Manhattan. Word is his liver quit living.
Steve. Tried to read your files first thing this morning. Nothing I had would read the text. I discovered that I did not have MacLinkPlus which I used successfully to convert Bracken's DOS WordPerfect files, on my machine.Your files meanwhile are blank doc icons, not even PC tagged.
So I file-shared IMOTE (my Mac) with HEDRICK (Sue's), and 3/4 of her drive was locked, feeding me garbage about not having enough access priviledges. I went on to other things. Later I called Sue to troubleshoot that little annoyance, but have been too focussed on building the iMote Bookskellar to tear away. Will eyeball and get back to you later on that.
Did I already tell you that yesterday afternoon that the Sue's colleague Karen, and her boyfriend Pitch, brought her home from the airport? Yes I did, but did I tell you that he works in public relations for the Navy at the Pentagon, was impressed with what he had the short time to see of my site, and is perhaps interested in farming design work my way. Mmmm...maybe you primed the pump.
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""