March 2009 page 2

Content Links Links by contributing poet: Dubblex Joy Leftow Janice Brabaw Heller Levinson Demetrius Daniel Tatjana Debeljacki Brenda Cook Kush Arora Sarah Cabrera Joseph Goosey Stephanie Edwards John Yamrus Yahia Lababidi Don Stabler Tiziano Fratus David Cheezem Charles Hice Links by contributing artist: Bettina Burch Teresa White Willow Gray Alex Bustillo Meme Arte Randall Radic Anatholie Alain Links by accepted submissions: january 2009 Tribute to John Coltraine Spreading Wildcat Fire Anxiety. Coney Island with (hilarity) with (electronics) from loquacious this easel I Want My Cuchifrito A Whisper, Perhaps, From the Universe's Dark Side THE TIME OF BIRTH Resonance I shut them out, those memories Geisha Bitch-speak: Several Condescending Ways to Say NO Sisters The World poem Expressing Oneself SIDE ITEM C-a-n-c-e-r ¡Ella sin el en el sillon verde! she loved the literary types… in dog obedience class… I saw my face Fanciful creators Intertwined Medicine [unity] A Conversation with Pol Pot Absense of Snow Flowers Fade Forking Ill Submissions january 2009 by Bettina Burch I have been published in international and local magazines and newspapers; have my work in several private collections; have attended the Museum School, Harvard University, and have my B.A. from Principia College. For more information contact: email: bettinaburch@gmail.com website: www.bettinaburch.com One poem by Dubblex DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools. Tribute to John Coltraine Be-bop Rip rocken Sure shocken Be boppen Get things poppen Drown in the avalanche of sound Smooth riffs of saxophones Drum and bass a cacophony of tones Jazzy melodies and 20-minute solos In the flow it goes Listen to him blow up and down the scale Climbing to the top the cat sure can wail He's a musical genius, tremendous The bass and sax make you tingle and relax He's a legend of jazz Pushing it to out of breath His breath control circular breathing Look close, you can see his chest heaving Covering the night club with a musical flood Sound so bold and bright playing deep into the night Fingers quick in a split kicking off licks He makes it look so easy and sound so ready Accompanied by a throbbing bass and drumming pace Like busting through darkness His sound drips then gushes He lived that lush life high as a kite, drinks or smack he could play that sax Expressing emotions and feeling his be bop beat no one else could compete so unique and complete be free style or off the sheet he captured the vibe of city streets Back in the day that man could play Fast or slow sweet and mellow He played like the sound of a sunrise He played like the sound of the dawn Quiet like whispers of nightfall The beat of heavy rainfall, deep in the jungle call Notes squealing and squeaking like his instrument was speaking kept peaking the next level seeking Made you feel something playing music sounding like running so stunning backed by drumming bass fingers strumming He uncovered explored and opened sounds to his sax roar want more want more how that melody did soar in score after score The cymbal and the high hat the toe tap Plays filling the empty spaces a colorful oasis with rhythm chases guides our ears through a maze of amazing solos the way you blow Like no other like no other Saxophone smothered There you go again blowing like a northeasterly wind So free so easy so easy so free Holding those high notes making music float playing in the haze of your dope Your music stands the test of time It is everlasting forceful blasting I like to listen to you in my different mind states help me escape I want to ride that Blue Train With My Favorite things Making that soprano sax sing Want to make my Ascension with Giant Steps To the Afro Blue Impression To Meditations Got to hear that Love Supreme From the Blue Note to The Village Vanguard You were kicking it heavy and hard Getting down with Monk and Miles That free jazz invented your own style One poem by Joy Leftow “Poet Laureate” of Washington Heights, Joy Leftow is a double alumna at Columbia University and has her second Masters from CCNY in Creative Writing. Joy’s style is - in your face reality. When Joy is not busy doing people & cat rescues, she meets her muse & reflects on relationships with more sarcasm than you’d get in an entire season of Seinfeld. Spreading Wildcat Fire Caught on fire ~ sizzle with desire Cause havoc when I prance cross city streets Barely escape slaughter as I suddenly appear out of nowhere, the sun gleaming in my hair You barely miss me as I spin past your fender You smile and wave goodbye And are glad for I Suspend the silver gloom around you Momentarily the Sunshine of my heart beats Scarlet on top purple beneath My true colors For you I throw in some sunset red I tattoo myself on you Winged fairy of time Imprinted on your soul & memory I raise your energy The twitter stops Nervous laughter I speak my first line Only fool falls asunder Lightening strikes twice And Jill came tumbling after Jack fell down It's beyond the fruits of my labor She probably meant to save him Either that or she wanted his crown I surrender… I learn to connect to unconnected to survive to live In ways I couldn’t see how to before this One poem by Janice Brabaw Janice Brabaw is an established production coordinator and production accountant in the television field. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York with her menagerie of cats and fish and plants. She is the author of two books that detail her struggle with depression, borderline personality disorder, and binge eating disorder - And Again: A Memoir of a Life Disordered and a collection of poetry called Universe, Disturbed. website: http://www.janicebrabaw.com/ Anxiety. It starts in my shoulders I find myself stooping, slumped Blades retracted, too close Cramped, I am withered and hiding. Then my jaw, clenched, tight I try to release and relax opening and closing my mouth like a silent little gold fish It manifests through my arms down to my finger nails This buzzing, anxiety in my veins I feel like I am shaking when I'm still Rarely does it reach my stomach Somehow it skips to my bladder Sends me trembling through the house I don't close the door anymore My biceps are conductors and the electricity prickles and pulses I am fizzy, tortured soda pop Threatening to erupt, to explode I'm not always sure why lightning strikes or why I can't shake the thunder Coney Island by Willow Gray Willow Gray lives and works in NYC. A former architect, she currently makes images and objects, often including text. email: ambiguityfarm@gmail.com Three poems by Heller Levinson Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines including Sulfur, Hunger, Talisman, First Intensity, Laurel Review, The Wandering Hermit, Ampersand, etc. His most recent publication, SMELLING MARY (Howling Dog Press), has been nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Please visit www.hellerlevinson for more information. with hilarity, ...     remorse calumny           adjutancy           alembic the calculus unremitting & curly cantankerous landfills purring fortifying credit stoppage on a par with demonstration the King is dead distribute wake-up calls democratically arousal is intersection spiced with anticipation the time to repea(n)t is when graciousness steals bases umpires storm the fields in holy garb rant for conclusivity interference the penalty box diameter insufficient the road to no road aptly with electronics, ...     horseless ness                     age of geographical erasure                 current upbraid conducting ion wattage cathode ampere chariot amber nunnery mummeries bloated in inundatory mimetic mnemonic coat pow-er ... the here of the here is here not which is to say that the is of the here is is not which is what? where do we go from here transmissions in exchange for abolishment? the history of electronics is ever greater diminution to have a beer at a deep rich mahogany bar in Brooklyn thinking of Walt Whitman is electrical but is not electronics ... history will define Homo sapiens sapiens as that species which ushered artificial intelligence onto planet earth ... mud and pigs are not electronics, are they a form of counter-conductivity?                instantaneity closets                 the withdrawn                      screens replace mirrors                                incantatory coventries belie smelling Mary is electrical but not electronic as we mounted the horse, electronics mounts us spurs us, reins our lives ruling the visible we are ruled by the invisible sensorial reset subterranean jollities annihilation javelins savage the way we surrender from loquacious this easel westward drill intent with summons counterfeiting larkspur melodies numinous geographies deploring the low ground canvas misfirings pigments mistressing ignorant of station (containerships necklace the seas                 -- bleed matriculates banking pneumatic corollas hilariate windspray vineyards the trump magnificence of sunsledding overlords brushstrokes defiant hemotrophic fat with color One poem by Demetrius Daniel Demetrius Daniel is a spoken word artist and musician residing in Washington Heights. He has read throughout New York City in venues such as the Nuyorican Poet’s Café & the Knitting Factory. Demetrius has read at the Monkey Room & the Archway. He has also hosted a reading series at the formerly known Bahamas Restaurant back in 2003 & the “WORD” series at the OSA church from 2004 to 2005. In 2006, Demetrius was a featured guest on Rockland world radio as well as the local TV show, “The New Yorkers.” He has performed at the Uptown Artstroll since 2005. Demetrius also plays trombone with the Latin jazz bands Masacote and IC Express. He has a CD entitled “Words Speak” on cdbaby.com. He has also been published in the “Silent Journey.” Demetrius teaches English and poetry to middle school students at Eleanor Roosevelt Intermediate School. He has also featured at STAINS lounge in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He has been a featured reader at STARK’s and Nightingale Lounge’s Saturn series. Demetrius currently plays in the band DEEP INTENT. He currently features at various open mics around New York City. I Want My Cuchifrito I want my cuchifrito While my bed’s still warm Sun’s golden rays gleaming I want my cuchifrito After hitting the snooze button Alarm clock still screaming I want my cuchifrito Afternoon, during lunch break On top of long mahogany desk Between sheets of paper I want my cuchifrito Before the supervisor finds out And like Biz Markie says Catches the vapors I want my cuchifrito In the evening Just after tedious talk shows Before nightly news has begun I want my cuchifrito Right after Letterman, Jay, and Conan’s Final joke or pun I want my cuchifrito Uptown, downtown Spring, winter, summer, or fall I want my cuchifrito Walking down the block For no good reason at all I want my cuchifrito Tender, a little oily, and caliente hot I want my cuchifrito MMMMMMMMM, Always hits a righteous spot I want my cuchifrito With that African-Caribbean… Pinch of European flavor Tasty titillating juices Exploding, I must savor But lately, my doctor says You simply have had cuchifrito one way It’s way too much Why don't you try it differently? Cuchi grilled, cuchi baked, or cuchi raw Not too spicy and such I guess cuchi-Frito A little variety Will have to do Just remember though Cuchifrito Like the song says I will always Love You! One poem by Tatjana Debeljacki Tatjana Debeljacki, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia HDS Montenegro-HUSCG&HDPR,Croatia. Up to now three collections of poetry have been published: A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS, published by ART – Užice; YOURS, published by NARODNA KNJIGA Belgrade and VULCANO by Haiku Lotos, Valjevo.CD-BOOK, A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS. ART+ Uzice. "AH-EH-EEH-OH-OOH" published by Poeta Belgrade. 2008. THE TIME OF BIRTH I will conquer the fear of flying I will jump with the parachute of kiss While walking I’ll dance to the drum rhythm Dream in the clothes of the penguin Thumb through the book Goodbye my sixteen years with premises in the mind that I will carry them in my fifties real and modest and at least once a day I will laugh out loud Really enjoy In intimately woven world When the moon passes its seventh round And Jupiter falls on Mars Our world will be the leader And love will be the path for the stars That would be the time when Aquarius is born To my grandchildren, grand-grandchildren I will tell stories about times When people were people. One poem by Brenda Cook (Bebe) Bebe Cook lives in Texas comes from a southern U.S. oral tradition of story-telling. She has placed in local and national poetry contests and continues to write poetry to record her own rooms and moments in order to bring that tradition to the page. Her work has appeared in Flutter Poetry Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry and Six Little Things. She enriches her writing with the diversity of gardening, photography, and working as an environmental scientist. Resonance The blues       live, so I learned in the MoPo district of New York                               City; inside a seed of a bar. A room                               sliver, long and thin like a bass                               reed dressed in red.                         No Cover:                         two drink minimum,                         strictly enforced. A pick-up bar,       packed full of young             urban                   professionals,                               loose ties                               and                               lusty hearts.                                I sit and shuffle a deck                                           of cards, purchased                                           at a novelty                   shop two doors down; George Bush in drag                         on 52 cards. I came for the blues.  A tiny Asian women in a midnight dress steps out from behind  the crushed crimson curtain;                   a     songbird with a deep                               full                               voice.                                She opens       her mouth and sings.                               I feel her melody,       her siren speak,        her soul slides                               along my chords, baby                               she can belt the blues.                                                        You strike the tuning fork.                                           I feel the metal vibrate,                               hear its melodic hum                                        and I answer it                                                    with my own.       Your harmonic signature resonates.              I hear       the pitch, feel       the tone. Who                         is       the signature? Who is                         a harmonic                         shadow? Am I background noise or the 4th overtone?                                 I long for the resonance                   of the words                   brought to life. My muse                    dresses in scarlet, her spiked toes                   tap, and sometimes she croons                    to me.                     Bebe, I just want to be the blues. A Whisper, Perhaps, From the Universe's Dark Side by Alex M. Bustillo Alex M. Bustillo was born in Miami, Florida in 1965. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English from Florida International University. He resides in France, where he is he is a business coach and trainer. He develops blogs for visual artists. He has recently started to work on photo and image manipulation in the "mandelbrotia" Blog . Alex has no formal training but is intensely curious and somewhat ironic. He has lived in Latin America, Canada, Italy and The United States. website: http://bustill.blogspot.com/ One poem by Kush Arora Kush Arora is a 22 yr old Indian national and a student of engineering in India. Writing is his passion, Tagore and Gibran are some of hia favourite writers. I shut them out, those memories ‘Gilded tombs do worms infold’ -- William Shakespeare I worded them out, those memories— When they came to me To ask of their rightful place In a corner of my heart Instead of honouring their needs And listening to their voice And giving them permanent abode in my heart I promptly shut them out:— Didn’t listen to them; instead ‘taped’ on them my voice As I ceremoniously put on them the coruscant crowns of poetry Which became their yoke and their cage With time, they were so flattered with their riches They turned themselves in their image: Their shrieking were numbed so It sounded like a bird’s sweet call And my heart it no longer battered And so it no longer mattered So, instead of preserving them in my heart I preserved gilded tombs of them in poetry Poetry speaks for them now and they are mute Mute; perhaps shied away because of the wiles and ways of Poetry They lack charm and sophistication And decent, social ways They rather let Poetry speak in their turn As she knows its way around The hearts of others and mine better, you see Well, the Bard said it true, ‘Gilded tombs do worms infold.’ In poetries I worded them out, those memories— I shut them out. Geisha by Teresa White Teresa White is the author of two books of poetry: In What Furnace and Gardenias for a Beast, the latter endorsed by Billy Collins and in the running for the Pulitzer Prize in 2008. Teresa is finalizing the manuscript for her third collection due out later this spring. Read more about Teresa at her website: www.teresawhitepoetry.com Three poems by Sarah Cabrera Sarah Cabrera is ready to emerge from her private diaries and journals. Poetry is her meditation, therapy, art and weapon of choice. As a psychology major, law student, student organizer, social activist and feminist, she finds it necessary to strive for mastery over words and her own voice through poetry--not only for purposes of persuasion and strengthening debates, but also to stretch and test the boundaries of logic and her imagination. To her, writing poetry is its own reward--an exercise of personal freedom. For her, a lot of irreverence is necessary for creativity. A total opposite of the culture of conformity in most law schools. By and by, she writes to reclaim the precious space in her head and her own humanity from the intrusion of the cold clutter of legalese and repressive unwritten norms of society. She is set to publish more than 30 of her poems and some sketches in the art & poetry chapbook "When Hephaestus Fell & other poems," to be launched in the middle of March 2009, in Cebu City, Philippines. This project is in collaboration with the Jose Joya Awardee artist, Christian Galinato. Bitch-speak: Several Condescending Ways to Say NO Your hard drive is so incompatible with my soft ware. We are so alike that we repel. You're so weak where I am strong; no, no honey we just don't belong. Our compasses point to different Norths, so abort your mission, just abort. Oh go away, don't waste my time 'cause I really hate to have to rhyme. It's really tiring, being too polite so just for once please get it right: ...it's not me it IS you, don't act so surprised. Sisters They came all dressed and dolled up. Pretty ladies in a circle share a pitcher of frozen margaritas. Glasses tipped with salt, girls brimming with youth, glowing. She says to one, "Enjoy and play it by ear" to the other "Drop him, He is no good" Then they raise their glasses, a toast for the best. They cross their legs under their type-A skirts and move closer to share secrets between sips and a few puffs. They dry their tears to enjoy each others' laughter. They talk about lovers and romance-- How to take delight in and how to reveal. They tell stories about families and plans. They talk of endings and beginnings. They are women of the mind, Women of discipline and women of the heart. They bloom with each experience, each lesson, each tear they allow to fall and each mountain they conquer. Expressing Oneself by Randall Radic Randall Radic is an Old Catholic priest, former pastor, and convicted felon. He lives in Northern California, where he reads, writes, smokes good cigars, drinks wine and visits San Francisco as often as possible. email: doctorradic@msn.com One poem by Joseph Goosey Joseph Goosey is hiding in the library. He recently lost his girlfriend due to a few poems he wrote about how sexy he finds the girls in the Canadian band, Pony Up! Also, he has a chapbook available via Poptritus Press and thanks you for reading. SIDE ITEM For too long have I tap danced on the edge of a decent artistry. Yesterday, I purchased a salad simply because Lucy with her large red spectacles was browsing the salads. It was only a simple side item. No bacon, of course. It's possible that Lucy is a vegan, not unlike, so many other traps. One poem by Stephanie Edwards Stephanie Edwards was born in Lansing, MI and is a senior at Albion College, pursuing a double major in English with a Creative Writing Emphasis and Economics. At Albion College, she is president of English honorary Sigma Tau Delta and works as a Poetry & Fiction Editor on the Albion Review, a nationally circulated undergraduate literary magazine. At school, she also works as a writing consultant in the college's writing center. She spent the spring of 2008 semester interning with Member of European Parliament Peter Skinner in Brussels, Belgium, where she wrote political speeches and press releases. She spent the summer of 2008 as a research fellow at Albion College, researching the effects of place on the poetry of James Wright. C-a-n-c-e-r On nights like this, some kneel down to pray. I kneel down in my garden under the stars, searching through crab grass for something holy. The word sticks in my throat a little when I try to spit it out: c-a-n-c-e-r—a six letter word, worth ten points in Scrabble. Cancer is a crab, fourth sign of the zodiac. Its children are forced to walk sideways through life, gifted with hard shells to protect their delicate centers. Yahoo says Cancers should enjoy this July's "summer good times." Hippocrates thought the cut surface of a malignant tumor looked like a crab, legs splayed out on all sides, invading healthy tissue. I rip the crab grass out of the dirt, struggling not to leave any fugitive roots to choke out my tomato plants. The small green bulbs rest peacefully, wholly unaware that I nurtured (dare I say saved?) them tonight. ¡Ella sin el en el sillon verde! by Meme Arte In Meme's pictures the wry humor and tough characterization sharpen the image into a condensation of wit more punchy than brutal. Memes predecessor may be Draumier. Meme's depiction of his principal protagonists possesses tenderness and tension of sexual desire not found in the great French graphic artist. website: http://www.meme-arte.com.mx/ Two poems by John Yamrus John Yamrus has been a fixture in American poetry for four decades. Since 1970 he has published 2 novels, 18 volumes of poetry and more than 900 poems in magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages including Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Japanese and (most recently) Romanian. His newest book is 'New and Selected Poems' and is now available online at http://www.lummoxpress.com should you like to obtain a copy. in dog obedience class… for once, my little Abby did everything right. for once, she didn’t bite, jump or pull. this time she paid attention and sat and stayed and came and listened… just like all the other dogs. i can’t tell you how much i hated that. she loved the literary types… men who used and understood the language of words. this made it all the more disconcerting when the latest object of her desires rejected her, saying: “i’m not your type. really. you’re looking for a straight declarative, and all i’ve got to offer is a dangling participle.” Two poems by Yahia Lababidi Yahia Lababidi is the author of a critically-acclaimed book of aphorisms 'Signposts to Elsewhere' - selected for 'Books of the Year (The Independent, UK, 2008) as well as 'Year in Books' (Sun Sentinel, USA, 2007). Yahia Lababidi is also an internationally published poet and one of few contemporary writers to be featured in the encyclopedia of "The World's Great Aphorists" - a compendium of wit and wisdom- by former TIME magazine editor and author, James Geary (Bloomsbury, 2007). website: www.janestreet.org/press Fanciful creators What fanciful creators we are: bestowing shock absorbers on cars sprinkling tenderizer on meats and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts Such wishful thinking, this gifting what we desire. I saw my face I saw my face this morning hovering at the base of a coffee cup eyes liquid black and thirsting lips parted as if some great spoon had stirred me to the depths and left everything, swirling. Intertwined by Anatholie Alain Anatholie Alain is an canadian artist who has been exhibiting her works with galleries in the Ottawa area and currently dabbles with mixed media. website: http://anatholie.spaces.live.com/ One poem by Don Stabler Donald Stabler has been writting seriously for about 13 years now and a member of The Ontario Poets Society. (TOPS) For about 4 years and published in their newsletters and anthologies. Don reads for different occasions and parties and likes to surf the you tube poetry videos. Medicine The generation voice All souls grow dazed As the brilliant sun Drifts across the afternoon. I heard you in a season Where life was answered By an excellent question. On your door I place Corners of mystery knocks. The response boldly sings A spirit chanted to a clear heaven. Those hours where The medicine cropped A chance at continuing. You who are far. I bellow like the valley Antlers cold in a dream. Where the light comes To sustain beauty. And you are divine voice Like the learning in a silence. One poem by Tiziano Fratus Tiziano Fratus (1975) is poet, translator, editor, director of Festival and Edizioni Torino Press. He published nine books of poems in Italy; his poetry has been translated and published in Usa, Argentina, Portugal, France, Switzerland, Poland, Germany, Uk, Slovack Republic, Singapore, Hong Kong. Last books: A Room in Jerusalem (Brooklyn, 2008), Doubleskin (Singapore, 2009), 5PX2 (Edinburgh, 2009). It’s forthcoming the anthology of all of his poetry, La bottiglia di Klein (Klein’s Bottle, Lugano/Torino, 2009). [unity] (From A Room in Jerusalem) the body is laid on the faded old yellow and blue towel the years blow on the breeze coming in off the sea accompanying the waves as they approach and break on the reversed edge of the beach I acclimatize myself to the breathing of the surf the shrill cries of boys and girls as they play in the water this raging war seems so far away where fathers and sons subsist with curtailed breath ready to bombard with technology’s help the egyptian army and the meager phalanges so arrogantly sent by damascus while the newspapers of the european capitals brandish yet again the terror of a resumption of the shoah right where it had been interrupted the generals from tel aviv write down in secreted notebooks the details of a proclaimed crushing victory they know the weight of the arab armies whose equipment and preparation is not unlike that of the fascist army which at one time had a certain amount of difficulty in conquering albania thus delaying the beginning of the german advance on moscow I read in the sand the word i s r a e l as it cancels itself every morning a dark girl wearing a white dress her hair bound by a pink sash walks barefoot to this protected beach she sheds a dose of tears and mixes it with the salt water in her palestinian blood circulates the memory of an israeli soldier who was killed in one of the wars that enflame the sand and the stones each morning she kisses the forehead of her newborn son lying in his crib and goes to the sacred place bound to a love that is now physically rent with her finger she writes a name that will be cancelled by this evening it is the destiny of a people One poem by David Cheezem David Cheezem owns Fireside Books and www.goodbooksbadcoffee.com, an independent bookstore in Palmer, Alaska. He earned his MFA in creative writing from the University of Alaska Anchorage in 1997. A Conversation with Pol Pot So what’s it like, Pol Pot? Tell us what’s it like. To be cheered on the streets of Phnom Penh By the people you would kill? Pol Pot scraped his toast. It was very good bread. We baked it at home, Sliced thick and toasted, perhaps too dark. Pol Pot scraped his toast, scraped it with a knife. Scratch, scratch, scratch, the knife on the bread. Flakes softly fell to the plate: soft and black Scratch, scratch, scratch. Little flakes, overdone, Softly buoyed in air until they settle on the plate, Dead little flakes of dark bread. Pol Pot smiles, nods for some butter: “Death is whatever you don’t remember.” Three poems by Charles Robert Hice Adult male seeks readers for free poetry by a JesusFreak (the flesh is dead eye am a). Check out my latest works from the CharlaXBio. Website: http://www.poetrypoem.com/charlax7 Absense of Snow The way is clear and not encumbered. No shoving with my feet and labored, breath. I walk and smell no roses. I feel my life instead of death. The sky is blues and sunny. The clouds are white and far away. The snow is absent around about me. I sense the absence of the snow. It must be what Heaven will be. No snow or ice or death. I will kiss you all someday. When I am there. Gone away. To rest. Flowers Fade I saw the flowers on the roadside, they were all so pretty to me; they seemed permanent to me, But snow will frown-- wind and rain and sun. The flowers are all gone. Forking Ill John M went camping and took his friend Timmy. Off they went to the Forking River Dam. They went to the Forking Campground near the Forking Dam. They decided to visit the Forking City. They had to go to the Forking Market. It was near the Forking Gas Station closer to the furcating Forking River bending near the Forking swamp turning into the Forking Quicksanding place there where they turned off the Main Forking Road. They turned Forking right there. There is a Forking left turn as well but they had to get to the Forking Store. They bought some Forking Beer made in the Forking Brewery. They were still in Illinois. Forking, Ill. Ill is the abbreviation for Illinois, so we aer all Forking, Ill. For now. The men were Forking camping so they bought some Forking beans made at the Forking beanery. The Forking Meat CO. provided. The Olympic branch of the Mount Olympus Water CO. Donated the Forking Water. They went to the Forking River Motel to steal the soap and the towels. They paid for the room and took two Forking Dam showers. They kept the Forking Dam Ashtray. It has a picture of the Forking Dam River. The Forking Dam Police were searching for the Forking Dam Campground to arrest the Forking men. They were not from Forking at all but just out of townies they had come to Forking Dam to Fish for Forking Fish. They went to the Forking Boat Dok and rented a Forking Boat the Indian Man in charge of the Forking Boat Dock said you out of townies speak with Forking tongue. But money green in Forking Dam. Good to see you Forking men. The Men in Forking Dam City are Forking gay. The Forking City Future Club is Oddfellows Hall. Eye am Forking, Ill. From all that Forking Fish they gave to me the nibbles and the bites the love all tied up in Forking Ville. They said that visit day is FrYdaY at the Forking Prison Institution they have a Forking Fish fry for religion they want me to go to Forking, Ill. And visit.