"And more! The Almost Uptown Poetry Cartel's
SurferGirrl Poetry Review is looking for poetry with
a soft, sci-fi, quantum, surfer feel. Well, sorta...
We're rilly pretty flexible...Verbo-viz. Anything
po-mo or experimental is cool."
--Christine O'Leary-Rockey

Hey! f'rinstance... feel this:



OOOH, SURFERGIRRL--

I have loved you from the shore.
Standing near the ocean's roar, one of the possibilities
contained in the wave function-- the one representing the cat-- actualizes
and the other possibility vanishes. Just vanishes.

It was just three months after the great war,
and Paris, hanging ten, was once again the city of light. Yet
allegory of Chopin could nae avert a tsunami of virtual deconstruction.

An', damn, thee big wave of thee etudes goes. like, like...
not-so-oblique like -ly neither>>>**life*FORRCEs**<<<
=@&>>> surge of woman to inscape.


No matter. Though wet and sated... o-migollyoops! the moral plane stretches
way off and outward, then upward into rilly cool ionosphere. High and dry
way above the late, great, mauve and mellow plains of Kansas.
Hey, mama! Dust in der wind.

Die Antwort
weiss ganz allein
der Wind.

Well. Toto, nothwithstanding,
a brown squirrel scuttles across an open space and disappears. To live
in the hearts of those we love is not to die. That Schrodinger's cat thang opens a wound
between classical physics, the Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics and...like,
you know, I guess, maybe the Many Worlds Interpretation of Quantum Physics too. Hey!
The sea was angry that day, my friends. Outside, in the garden, the wind was
bending the boughs of the giant oaks and swaying the junipers
like plumes in a cossack's helmet. Think about it: all you need is love.

Madonna's indulgence with American pie chronicled like a Romance novel. Looks
like it just bloomed, or something. Suddenly boink! Grew like a damn weed.
Like Topsy. Part I. Like it was watered, nurtured and force-fed, sheltered... maybe
titillated with sunlamps 'til it became an indistinguishable part
of a splendorifically Ecuadorian jungle. Rumble in the jungle?
Ooh, mama! Start me up!

Yo! C'mon now-- this is the love crowd, isn't it?

Rise up. In the same format: concentrated on desire of the thing-in-itself,
the lap top, and/or a nexus of tanned thighs. Succulent upper body panting,
heaving like jujubes rumbling artlessly out of a hastily-ripped-asunder container
of all-too-weak rectangular-shaped cardboard. In a darkened theatre
. In a heated rush. Oy! In-a-gadda-da-vida, bay-bee!

In another branch of reality, i run down the stairs. Like e.e. cummings. Down
to the sea in ships. And each continuous history continues to maintain focus
only in a familial way. It's quite filigreed. Despite whatever passion
or kinky manouvres in the boat of the crane.

History is focused entirely on the adventure; anchors away! The men in the boat
must resolve conundromical and stultifying obstacles, like great waves, Katrina's
impending ovulation, amber-mountain-majesty, and the disorienting allure
of all too spacious and sundry femurs.
All shivs and shins. And Sharks. And the Jets. and Benny-- know I'm sayin? And
the Martini brothers. And Bernie Taupin, too. Bernie, Bernie, Berni-Bernie, too.
Bernie. Too.

Black plastic with a hole in the middle, Bernie. Seas of green. The metaphysics
of quantum mechanics is, some say, based upon an unsubstantiated leap from
the microscopic to the macroscopic. And that ain't right. Huh-UH! NO way, José.

Waves function, ma petite fille de surf.
Oh, yeah. OH, YEAH...oh, yeah,
oh, yeah, an' you know--
you know, you know,
you KNOW them bone
and beveled sands
stretch far and far away....


--Marty Esworthy



envoyez les submisions à: colhere@yahoo.com
sujets: substance de mécanicien-type principalement de surfergirrl
ou de tranche de temps (ou substance postmodern verbo-visuelle
ou autre expérimentale d'amusement!)

---

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