July 20, 2008
A Minimum Threshold of Coolness by Robert Ciesla
There's something about fluorescent lights that I had forgotten long ago. It's not the schizophrenia-inducing short-wave ultraviolet or the constant low buzzing that's designed to comatose kids into submission. It's the property to display the full atomic spectrum of the basketball-toting guy who was spoon-fed with confidence since day one only to take a dump on kids like us. It's the smirk of an asshole. It's time to re-unite with the class of '98. Only this time I have my mentor with me.
Avoiding eye-contact we sit down beneath the potently fluorescing phosphor with the rest of them; we walk as one. My pupils still belong to a highschool play version of Barnes in Platoon: take the pain motherfucker! It's those insomniac's 4 am astral claymores that make you limp like me. Throw in a few non-productive panic attacks and all the websites you browsed like the other kids exchanged STDs by the Amazon river and you'll know exactly what I went through.
Let's take a moment to assume the tear-jerking position. In it there's no room for social relativism.
During the somewhat lamented socializing the two of us stand back and visualize robberies in Bali, threats by a mob of passing militants, hep C, and lots and lots of wasted stock market options. Let's long for all the things you and I managed to draft-dodge because we stayed home and took the pain of being who we really are. This inner odyssey of unsung heroics, one you can' t buy from a cheap airliner to some troubled continent as your once-rebellious bandmates turn into these hate-filled insurance men with the same hunger in them before their conquests began. Their parents still deal in law, international politics, BMWs, and now they share the same foreign bungalows.
What about the breeders? The salt of the Earth, Mars, and Distant Cluster Z. Without these guys there wouldn't be class reunions, let alone a mankind. It is through their zygotes that we celebrate our continuing existence. Their primordial urges and terminal normalcy set them apart from you and I. It is this grave lack of enthusiasm and karma, this care-free abandon to baby-shit on all forms of the extraordinary and treat regions beyond their A to B with some unfounded arrogance.
You start to flicker and we both fade in-out-in.
The mercury vapor suddenly discharges its flow of electrons. The following crackle confounds them, but to us it is a repose. We are immersed in a purifying confusion as all visible light dissipates during a speech by one of the former-hipster-turned-lawyer who just seconds ago displayed an inherited baldness pattern. This should've been the energy policy around here. The only equation for the elimination of school massacres worldwide is "no neon gas equals no typecasting - keep 'em in the dark!"
A majestic life will decorate one's trophy cabinet not just with blowjobs from fashion designer babes, but with fiery sorrows as well. For each Adolf Hitler -treatment from an art school and for each hand-me-down from bi-sexual women, dark side kids get something the alpha mutts will never achieve: synaptic impulses of utter and complete failure, a touch of the void within. Darth Vader moments without which one can't even fathom to cross that elusive threshold.
It's in this darkness that you fully emerge, bright as a class M star. My lonely guy -pill took me to you, and you were right. My seventeen-year old self with the big Marshall amp. You're the only one who changed and change is the only constant in the universe. Those who embrace it are welcome wherever they are. The others never left this place and they're falling to pieces over a little photon-loss. They had to learn what you already knew.
Now that I've found you, I am unstoppable. Seriously broke and bordering on saccharine, maybe, but still pushing the fucking envelope. As for you, we'll be friends to the world. It's back to the amps once more.
Cue Bon Jovi.
A GUILTY PLANET IN REPOSE by John Grey
I lie with my head in your lap
as the earth lies with its head in the lap
of the night
and elsewhere there is a brightness
you can't see
like the guilty grin that would have
come over my face
had I another face on the side
looking away from you
and of course there is ray confession
an orbit of a kind,
words circling the worst of what you can make of them
looking for a way in
to cling to you to make sound seem like peace
I am holding my restlessness in like the earth does
I am spinning through your flesh
even as I keep my bones so still
expecting you to digest what I am saying to you
like the day does heat and light
eventually you just say be quiet be still
but you cannot make it sound like
outside the hours move on as if there
is a destination somewhere
that isn't always when they are
Whistling Workers by AJ Kaufmann
Careless whistling of construction worker's
odours of fly meat
seared by hotter equatorial explosions
black jeans burn
white cap stutters
eyes closed still seeing the radiant
sea of sunclouds
witnessing own resurrections
deaths of whole cultures
at the white guy's realm dream borders
why are my ears and noses around
all lack of luck and luck of lack-all
happy to be blinded and deafened
by my white guy's
why erect them spacy glass works hotels
solid roof mosquitoes
figments of Aztec legend
ripped out hearts
if not for the pleasures
will leave this jungle hell lodge
misused as heaven
treated like portraits of sunsnow
in dim light lakes
so the careless whistling continues
of its consequences
ten thousand years from now
June 19, 2007
Cygnus Clausen (a postmodern poem) by Maria Law
allotted compose crone, cygnus clausen.
coco anhydrite camden compound
chris astrophysical alfalfa.
balk australia chisel aflame
ado aviv affectionate
booky bare belly
June 18, 2007
On participation, printing, the "future of print"
One ultimate goal of this project is to condense all the best works as submitted and published on the site (and of course, this means anyone accepted under the "traditional" online submission route) into an annual/semi-annual volume.
Part of the difficulty of getting words into print is, of course, the cost. Another difficulty is liability, which can be solved more or less easily with a little bit of money ... Anyone who has worked in publishing will know that as much money as is obviously needed to produce high-quality printed works, there is at least as much money needed for some out of the way yet essential functions. Enter: the Literary Nonprofit, mixed media mashups, Oprah's book club and author biopic releases paired with book launches.
Now it may seem I am criticizing these trends .. but in actuality, I see the point in doing whatever could be appealing to keep literature going strong. Yes, good literature is good enough to stand on its own, but no, it is not going to go out and find readers for itself. Until we lovers of the written word manage to glamorize literature enough to pull a critical mass of fans from the woodwork, we're just going to have to work extra hard in the margins to get the word out there ... fiction is till relevent!
As for Lingua Year #1 ... look for it in a webstore near you sometime next Spring. And until then ... spread the word to any artists, writers, futurists, critics, or fans.
May 15, 2007
HL Hunley by Jeff Crouch
Tim wanted to be the first in line for the new submarine ride at Our Texas Galveston, but he couldn’t let on to his friends that he still had a seasons pass.
Captain Nemo , even Nautilus—that name was probably still under copyright—, would have been a better name for a submarine ride, Tim thought.
Tim sighed out loud.
The Confederate theme had been downplayed at the Our Texas Cleburne, but Our Texas had obviously revisited it for the H.L. Hunley. Tim wondered why. He wondered about the politics involved, the need to raise questions about the course of events, however abstract those questions might be.
But for all his mathematical savvy, the best Tim could do was a senior essay on Profiles in Courage, a book supposedly ghost written for John F. Kennedy, a book concerning, of all people and places, Sam Houston and the State of Texas.
Tim wondered if a movie theme was in the making: he obviously couldn’t dress as a Storm Trooper to go to this event. How would ride enthusiasts dress? His sister was into Gone With the Wind; he wasn’t.
“This question might be a good one for Bruce Sterling,” thought Tim. “Perhaps I should email him.”
Had he not had work, Tim would have gladly camped out to be the first in line, but his notion of firstness was deflated by Susie Cluck, one of the sales ladies at his office, who had already been to one of the private openings for the H.L. Hunley
Tim decided to hang out in the computer room the rest of the day.
Dejected, Tim didn’t have his mom drop him off that night so he could camp out in line. And the next day she dropped him off in the parking lot of Super Boxes, across the street, and Tim could see that the line would be long.
Tim finally got his Later pass for the H.L. Hunley. His ride time wouldn’t be until 9:30 that night. Tim rode a few rides, but spent most of his day in the Raphael Semmes Pizzeria on the internet.
Unlike the picture of the H.L. Hunley on the internet, there wasn’t a place to sit.
Tim heard a whistle. He then felt the boat bubble up, and as he peered through the portals, he realized he wasn’t in a glass bottom boat. He was under water.
Bright lights lit the underwater scenery for a while. Tim had wondered why a submarine ride in the dark would be interesting.
And Tim began to doubt himself.
“Was that a fake lamprey?” he asked aloud.
A submarine ride with nothing to do or see would be stupid, and Tim began to wonder where the submarine was going. He listened intently and occasionally clamored for a spot at the portals, but the aquarium that constituted the scenery for the in-park ride was long gone.
Though he had not forgotten who he was, Tim now answered to the name Alfredo and spoke fluent Spanish.
Tim was part of a clone crew set to replace the Ecuadorian government at a social gala. He had no idea how long he had been under water waiting to go ashore. His handlers told him he was not the only clone Alfredo; other submarines had similar parties.
Someone began to sing, “These Are Your Confederates”—in Spanish.
Tim thought to check his cell phone to see if he had coverage, but it emitted a strange tune. When he flipped it open to catch a glimpse of the familiar, the screen read: “No Regrese.”
For a second, Tim began to sob. He almost felt as though he were in middle school again, and someone had stolen his lunch money. But perhaps now his life was entirely gone.
Tim rubbed his nose. Some scent was acting as an irritant and his eyes welled for an instant.
Tim thought for a second that the perfume the clone President’s wife was wearing was going to make him sneeze, but then he noticed that she had a warm musk about her. That stinky powder had come from elsewhere.
Tim felt his face: the smooth but slightly oily texture of hair. Tim had yet to experience stubble; he now had a well-groomed beard.
Tim gave an eye to the President’s wife’s backside, and he lost himself tracing the angle of her rib cage into her hip. When she almost backed into him, he didn’t flinch. His gaze fell to her calf, into the heel of her shoe.
Her legs were shapely.
Tim looked around for his partner, knowing he should have one, but he didn’t spot her, not that he knew what she looked like.
Tim remembered that he had left his sinus medicine in his Storm Trooper mask, and as usual, he had no tissue.
The curve of the woman’s back had made Tim think of astronomy and of the philosophical problem known as abduction.
Near the exit hatch of the submarine, Tim saw a spittoon. Perhaps it was there only as a kind of joke, as something meant to give the submarine an 1860s look and feel.
Tim stretched his arms above his head, hawked a loogie, and spit it heartily into the spittoon.
Tim thought he heard a female voice, slightly in disgust, slightly in surprise, say, “Alfredo,” and he looked around, an internal sunburn radiating from the bottom of his neck and out his ears, but found no one.
More than ever, he suddenly felt dignified, invigorated—his mother, could she have known it—would have believed him cured.
Outside, one of the handlers shouted, “Vamalos!”
Tim wondered why he had taken Spanish, yet Alfredo felt good about that decision, his boots hitting the gangplank with a clop.
May 2, 2007
Reading the Papers of Borges: Some Interesting Discoveries by Abraham Burickson
RECENTLY I reread the Jorge Luis Borges' story Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius in preparation for a lecture to be given in celebration of a great acquisition—the papers of the great Latin American writers. Borges covers everything, hides nothing. His is a mind at a level of complexity so uncommon that he is not satisfied until he alters reality, recreates it, gets his pen inside it and tinkers with it until it comes out right. This piece he took even further, creating an entire other universe and fusing it with his – all in under six thousand words. Damn.
And that’s really all I could think about it when I was done: damn. I tried to come up with something but drew a blank: no insightful analyses, no deep resonance with the postmodern condition, nothing. Borges shows you and tells you—and he shows and tells everything, leaving nothing to tease out. I thought I might delve into the historical symbolism – to see how the war and the politics of his day may have influenced things, to talk about how that might resonate with the modern day and the contemporary writer. Dull, I thought, middlemind.
So I headed to the library to look at these much ballyhooed papers.
The special collections library was somewhat thrilling, actually. Its massive glass façade, its sandblasted faces and autographs glowed with an aura of wonder and privilege. It was an institution dedicated to the antiquated idea that the original manuscript would hold some mystical sway over all its offspring.
“I’m looking for Jorge Luis Borges – Ficciones.”
It was Sunday morning, the librarian typed something into the computer and frowned. “All I have is a collection of statements from his bank in Geneva.” That was odd. Was all the talk of acquisitions just talk? Had they suspected that no one would ever check?
“You don’t have a file with his checkbook, bar napkins he might have written on, that kind of stuff?”
“We might. Check the cardfile.” She pointed me over to the file, picking up the phone which had been quietly but furiously blinking throughout our conversation. What I found there was one little card, typed out in that shaky 1960s way:
Borges, Jorge Luis
Var. errata 1935-1945
Aq. 1967, MacFarlane Auction House, London, England
I wrote down the call numbers and brought them to the other librarian who impassively disappeared behind the wooden doors at the back of the room, returning a few minutes later with a large cardboard file box and a pair of white gloves.
The contents looked like they hadn’t been touched in ages, as if they had been thrown together in a rush. There was an old notebook with some drawings and a lot of blank pages, a typed letter from some government official inviting Borges to dinner, a ration book, a whole pile of letters from various people I’d never heard from. I dug further down and found one from Borges himself – in an envelope, but unsealed and never sent. It was addressed to Adolfo Bioy Casares in Rio Plata, and dated 12 September, 1936. Although Borges’ penmanship was excellent, reading was slow as it was in Spanish and he is, as you know, not a simple man. When I was finished I took out my cell phone and snapped a few pictures of it so I could translate it later. It read as follows:
My Dear Esteemed Adolfo,
It has been too many months since we last spoke. The Irish toasts you recited over all my meals in June have shown themselves to be the most ideal nutrient…all summer I have been writing, and writing well. I have finished two new stories, both of them, I believe, now reared and ready to survive in the Jaguar Forest, as you so eloquently put it. The first, which I think you know of, is the Garden of Paths that Divide, the second is the Library of Babel. Both, I think, are of a single nature and I believe that both are stories in which you will find some brotherhood.
It is the story I am currently composing which has caused me to raise both eyebrows in consternation. I am thinking I will call it Orbis Tertius, and have enclosed a draft for your surgeon’s eye to examine. The story is a little dry at the moment, but this is not why I am sending it to you. It was born out of a discussion we had in the Hotel Dos Rios. You said that many authors claim their work is not created consciously by them, that it passes through them from some other spring. They do not, however, disclaim the prizes and royalty payments which arrive at their doorstep. Like spoiled children in the family of mind, you said. I laughed, but the following weeks would find me thinking about the conversation more and more frequently.
Whether it began then or I simply began to notice it then I could not say, but my ability to say that I wrote what I wrote became increasingly frail. I began with the idea of two new languages – one composed entirely of verbs and one of adjectives. I have long wished to compose such a language as these and enjoyed my mornings very much. Such pleasure! As the languages developed, my hand developed a preference for their rhythms. Simple Spanish became strange and undignified – crass. I soon recalled that no one knew my new language and it was in Spanish that I should write, and so I returned, but I was not the same. Though my understanding of the rules and the sense of the language had not changed, the language itself was now no longer my first language. The act of writing was difficult, onerous, and dragged out longer and longer until I stopped in the middle of a rainy Tuesday morning. I spent the day in the park, thinking that I had made some mistake, that this would most certainly be trouble. To my surprise I awoke the next morning to find that several pages of the story had been written, and the words were most certainly mine. What a strange occurrence! That day I sat down to continue the story and, after three fruitful hours, discovered that I had been writing in Ursprache, the language I had invented only a week earlier. In that time the language had developed from a stilted pidgin German to a full-fledged language with sensible grammar and a diverse vocabulary. I stopped writing and went immediately to the park to scratch my head and walk. The next morning, again, I found the story written in Spanish, but to my further astonishment it proceeded further than the Ursprache draft had. Elements of plot existed which I had not previously conceived, and all in Spanish, that increasingly strange language. Even now, the language is getting harder and harder to use. Over the next few days I continued writing in the day and waking up to find several pages of my own unmistakable handwriting on the table by the bed.
Adolfo, I do not wish to give up authorship of my work, but I think I have no choice. When I write in Spanish what was my own subjective thought seems to enter into the realm of the universal. What I am writing now bears little relation to my mind, except for the fact that it and I occupy the same space here in my study. The only thing which remains in the realm of my unique psychological experience is Ursprache, and that, sadly, is a language which does not exist. I fear for my life. Over the length of this letter it has become entirely clear that your help is needed, as you are the most important character in the story; now I understand that this is why I am writing to you. Please look the story over and tell me if my fears are warranted.
Yours ever in friendship,
I poked through the envelope again but there was no manuscript Why hadn’t he mailed the letter? Does anybody know about this? I thought, Should I tell someone? I dug deeper into the box: more government letters, a newspaper article showing a young Borges frowning at an elephant, a list of words in English. Then I discovered a small, yellowed clipping from the New York Times. It showed an older Borges extending a hand full of coins toward the members of the UN General Assembly. THESE COINS ARE REAL AND UNIQUE! read the caption, then, Jorge Luis Borges, self-proclaimed author, objected today to the conclusions of the General Assembly I noted that the name-plates of the various countries represented were conspicuously absent.
Beneath this lay a handful of black and white photos – two of Borges at the ocean, one of him sitting at a computer typing, and one photo of him on the steps of the University of Texas plaza looking up at the clock tower and pointing towards the camera with his cane. Next to him a bearded, pony-tailed graduate student was smoking a cigarette. In the student’s free hand was a large black book. Stuck to the back of the photograph was a square of paper cut out from an encyclopedia. It was beautifully typeset in deep, black letters, and was written entirely in Ursprache. Between the lines somebody had hand-written a translation. Xprnn, it said, any erroneous idea derived from an artificially objective perspective such as: fatherhood, any relationship between creator and created, and the idea of a flowing, linear time. These can easily be disproved by experimenting with…Here the entry was cut off.
Then I found a folded pile of papers on the same stock as the letter and discovered that they were, in fact, the incomplete manuscript he had planned to send to Casares. It began in part two with Borges’ discussion of the doctrine of materialism. Reading the original in his longhand was indeed a lyrical pleasure, and I spent a good hour plowing through his draft and trying to remember the translation I had read (the librarians do not allow you to bring books into the reading room. For what reason, I can’t say. It seemed to be that the magical nature of the collection was tenuous at best, that it relied upon an unspoken code rigid enough to keep the temperature and humidity at reasonable levels. That nearly perfect little room began to seem oppressive to me after so many hours. It began to take on the overly still nature of so many institutions. I could feel my toes twitching but stayed nonetheless). I continued reading until discovering that the last few pages had been written entirely in Ursprache. Here the writing and the narrative changed considerably. The story remained essentially the same but the telling was stilted, troubled, amateurish. People talk of looking at early drafts of great works to discover the humility and hard work of the author, and this was the experience I had hoped to encounter. But these pages were covered with drivel of the worst possible kind! If not for the paper and the handwriting, I would not have believed them written by the same man, and though the translation into Spanish was slow and painstaking, I felt that I had to read the entire draft.
By the end it was simply too much. Whether the Ursprache had ruined his Latinate mind or he had just gone old and his blindness had progressed to the point where he didn’t know what he was writing, I couldn’t say. I began to wonder whether he really had authored any of his works and suddenly my responsibility became clear. I took out my pen and began to translate and rewrite the last several pages Soon I tossed his pages entirely and rewrote them blind – vaguely remembering the original text I had read. I filled my pipe many times that night and when the sun began to rise outside the story was nearly complete.
Then, I wrote, English, French, and mere Spanish will disappear from this planet. The world will be Tlön. I take no notice. I go on revising, in the quiet days in the hotel Dos Rios, a tentative translation into English, in the style of Burickson, which I do not intend to see published, of Jorge Luis Borges’ Ficciones.
I walked out of the library to find the wind off the river more than brisk. It was still early in the morning and on the corner I could see the newspaperman unpacking the morning paper. I bought one and sat down at a nearby café. The university students were just beginning to walk the streets, stopping in small packs to smoke at the foot of the statue of Simon Bolivar. I feared one of them might recognize me, interrupt this quiet morning. Instead it was Adolfo who approached me, tapping my cane with his foot to get my attention. Bioy, I said, I have an idea for a story that I would like to discuss with you.
See the full text here
April 28, 2007
Update: Market Listing at Duotrope
As of yesterday Lingua is listed as a fledgling market at Duotrope. If you're already reading this, you probably don't need to go read our details, but check out this fabulous site aimed at helping writers and editors find each other.
April 17, 2007
untitled by Ilya *revised*
with every step I take. I wonder how old it is, and imagine it being poured some twenty or thirty years ago.
“Excuse me; do you know where Liberty Street is?” The voice is light and sharp. I am brought back into reality and give my attention to this disturbance.
She looks like her voice, with a fine nose, smiling eyes, and light, untamed hair. I’m not sure what she was looking for that day, and I never remembered to ask. Sometimes you know right away… I have found my muse! I think about how I felt twelve years ago, when life seemed full of promise and
potential. Writing wasn’t even on my radar back then. I just knew that I had to share my inner world, my perception of our reality, with others. They didn’t see it the way I did, but they could! If only I could show them! I struggled through college until I settled on writing – I can’t draw, and I don’t have the patience needed to play or write music. All the arts are too imprecise anyway. Every painting can be interpreted in many different ways, and the only way to get across the right idea is to write a good title, or even an
But throughout it all, I felt that I was only learning, practicing, and improving. I was preparing myself for the real thing. But after years of practiceruns, I could bear it no longer. I decided that I’ve had enough practice, and that I needed a fresh start to do some real writing. So I topped. I let my relationships lapse through inaction. And I moved to Virginia, where nobody knew me. Pretty standard “finding yourself” stuff.
I point her to Liberty Street, but keep the conversation going, and we go out for coffee, and then back to my house.
Making love to her is like being in the mountains; She is pure and sensual, and unafraid. She is eternal. She is sure of her own substance. She knows that this is one brief moment when it is insane to worry or hold yourself back.
The rest of the universe stops in its tracks to watch in awe.
We continue to see each other. We exchange life resumes. I tell her about my short-lived writing career. She tells me about temp jobs, renting month-to-month, and moving often – by choice; She has lived in more places than I have visited.
I note that she is clean for a gypsy. In fact, she is strangely clean in general. I ask her if hygeine is a passion of hers, and she laughs this off, as if it's nothing.
She seems to respect the idea of writing for a living.
This Thursday, it will have been exactly three months since we’ve met. I haven’t written a word. This doesn’t bother me.
I bring her flowers and reservations to a nice restaurant. I think she appreciates the cheesy gesture.
Her temp job at an engineering firm runs out, and she takes one at the town newspaper, and then a company that installs alarms in people’s houses. She tells me anecdotes about people who take their jobs too seriously. The sinuous quality of her skin, the almost plastic gleam, has spread to her hair.
When the alarm company job ends, she takes a break and we drive across the country. We have a destination, but we make many detours. She shows me places she has lived, and others along the way. We sleep in the back of her station wagon.
The gas stations, diners, grocery stores all blend together. My collection of supermarket membership keychains doubles after a year-long standstill.
We sit around in diners and talk for hours. Sometimes just us, but more often whoever we happen to run into that’s also looking to talk. The conversations, the diners, all coated in this mysterious sheen, this glow around the edges of all objects.
When we return – only three weeks later – my house feels foreign and small. Not just my house, but the street, the town. It feels like I have been away for years. I am startled, and I think that I may finally be able to write something that I’m content with. I try for a week straight, until I realize that I no longer want to write at all.I am content with being the only one to see the world through my eyes. I’d ratherjust see it together with her! I am ecstatic with this revelation. I’m in love! Fuck everything else!
I run out of my designated office room. She’s gone, and on my kitchen counter, I notice this mysterious pile of abaster twine…
April 15, 2007
Liquefaction by Jesse Geno
It all seems so primitive, traveling along the various above-ground tracks and suspended docks, rock jetties—certain Connecticut towns daring to construct their piers a few feet higher than average. Haughty, if you ask me. All the darling little islands are a certain reminder of the impending liquefaction. You know if they put it in the Globe, they must have something planned. I imagine the big dig turning into Nine Eleven Two, anther national scandal turned insidious and mythical through having made an acronym. “The BD” old people will say, and sigh, thinking back to the times when they weren't old but young, and looking forward to the bright future promised them by various gleaming-tooth politicians. A symbol of Boston's progress. Predictably all gone to shit.
The marshes seem easy enough; all the discovery channel programs I’ve watched tell me that fish absolutely love moss. The trees (so valued in fall for their predictable decline—like clockwork) will perhaps provide temporary luxury accomodations. Perhaps killer sharks love living in trees.
The real pathetic thing about all this is the mobile homes sitting squat and frightened under the constant watch of Rich Hill Dwellers. You know the people living in the mobile homes have little to no capacity to actually move the things. I highly doubt any white trash or white trash populist politician is going to suggest pre-emptive floaters for all the low income housing.
The man across the aisle is staring into the abyss and laughing, laughing. Maybe that's Bill Hicks on his itunes but I don't see any headphone cords; I don't see anything but the slabs of land floating at ridiculous angles along the turbulent coast.
April 4, 2007
High Ground by Lacy Stuart
some books i stole from libraries
and people i don't like
they are spending the summer getting mouldy
and i'd move them
its not like my karma's gettin wet
March 10, 2007
Authors by their nature... by clone00
Authors by their nature seem to require long and verbose title lines. Granted \nscientists too prefer to create long and explicitally categorized titles which \ntend to contain several colons as well as the word 'on' used in a declaritive \nway, like 'On the subject of Dragon Anatomie'
March 8, 2007
What will be interesting about people in the future when spaceflight is routine? by analog_mind
"OK Critter, bring her down"
Chaz adjusts his earpiece and shoots a glance
at the large com screen at the front of the room.
The curve marking the craft's descent is smooth,
and right on target.
"Looking good.. Watch the joint.. "
He holds his breath during the tense final seconds.
A roar of applause goes up in the room.
Chaz is relieved.
He mumbles that's a wrap to Critter
and barely remembers to switch the earpiece off
before dropping it next to another receiver.
Executive Commander Leslie is at his side
before he can turn to rush with the crowd to the launch pad.
"Walk and talk?" she inquires in her usual demure
yet commanding tone, and begins walking crisply
to the door before waiting for an answer.
Chaz correctly assumes
she will speak her mind
with or without his permission.
"We have a special job upcoming"
she remarks with a wink to Chaz.
He realizes she must mean
he is the man for the job.
"What's the catch?" He asks
although he knows he'll do it anyway
Knows he'd do anything for Leslie
(and the potential promotion she represents)
"The cargo is .. less than pleasing,"
she begins, with awkward hand motions meant to reveal
what she doesn't wish to say.
"Foreigners?" Chaz demands, peeved
He gets paid so much dough in part to not have to worry about extra
(It's a class thing.)
"There will be a modest bonus."
Chaz hears again the roaring applause
of the crowd.
No matter that the applause,
will pale compared to the green
March 7, 2007
End Where You Begin by Euler
it's an amazing thing
circuits interfere, intercept with circuits
static in the seasons
the nasa's plans
other things i can't seem to connect to now
>it's all a (recusive (mess(>))
March 2, 2007
poems by Ilya
Serene, calm, peaceful, puzzled
I could go on forever
Finding words to describe her
I gently kissed her still lips
I thought I saw her cheeks blush
But my vision deceived me
My magic was not enough
To bring her back
Eyes are red, and mind is blue
Packets fly across the band
Programs crash without end
And as the sun begins to rise
I sadly start to realize
That you and I just cannot fit
A fact my heart will not admit
Why do I waste my time online
When I could be in bed by nine
I could be having pleasant dreams
Of flashy, happy beauty queens
The sun and I would be best friends
As we woke up we would shake hands
And drink our tea and read the news
And share what we thought of the blues
"Those funny people", we would smile,
"They cannot break out of denial
They cry and sigh and have the blues
When it is up to them to choose"
The sun has gotten out of bed
It looks at me and shakes its head
There is no sense to talk again
I've spent another night in vain