Michael Crye

"Salvation is less faith and more truth."

the four elements
language | earth | void | motion

The world is composed of four components. 

The Earth is the first element; it defines where we came from, where we are,
but not who we are.  The Earth in which we inhabit  is divided into many
circles and borders.  The encompassing ones being Heaven, Hell, and
Purgatory.  No matter the subdivisions you dwell within, it's only a matter
of view and culture.   The relevance and division is short lived. The atomic
decay of these composites accelerated by mass media and twenty-four hour
communication.  Our blood has mingled on too many planes to limit ourselves
to these diatribes.  Their definitions falling prey to the most destructive
of elements ... the Void.

The Void is as it always has been an unmoving center of gravity, akin to dead
stars - imploded to the point of lightless stagnantation.  A black hole
collapsed upon itself, where time and space are only suggested as a
deception.

This creates the solar system of our deceptive world.  The place we dwell and
the inky pull of negative forces.  In to these worlds we are lent our only
Salvation.  Language and the Motion it can create like a flock of bird that
dimishes the locusts.  Yet, just as it cleanses it can play
trickster.  Our sea gulls can be blackened by soot into crows that pick our
own bones.  For the world lies in the gravity of lies and truth of the same
pressure, and you can be expanded or compressed by any force that reacts upon
you.  

We must find our real poets.
To call the name Poet is call yourself a noun
nouns are unreal 

We must exist as we act, act to exist.

A body at rest has no motion - A body at motion has no rest.

We live in dangerous times when it is enough to say something to be that
thing you want to be.  Too much of today is an organized system of
two-dimensional acceptance.  They say we all are equal ("at least he tries
hard").  We have bullshited ourselves into believing we are created equal. A
flat, horizontal world without vertical peaks.  We are only equal in the
fact that each of us conceals a Void. 

We are born to professions.  But in our haste to fill newly emptied time; we
try clothing that our bodies will not fit.  We can have them hemmed and sewn,
but there will always be a tug or tightness or awkwardness that we mistake
for motion.  In truth these hobbies only catch us pulling the hems from our
cracks and loose wool tighter around our own throats.

We play music when we can't see the sounds.  We paint pictures even though we
only understate the image.  It like a desert believes itself an ocean.

There are those who slide in on the coattails of this age and play poet.
Dress themselves up and plucked out the words, not realizing these words are
a joke and they fools.  They imagine themselves on horse, spearheading
forward into great lands, which are in fact the bogs of the Void.  Their
words don't even have the strength to float on the thickest of mud.  These
poets drown with their own words weighing them down.

They are saying nothing ... The English tongue has many words, the Spanish
tongue has many words, and so on ... but they are not Language. Language
appears as tongues, but it is a transformation of them, when the mouth moves
the throat yields a sound.  The sounds move the air, excites the structure of
things. 

The Void trembles.

The Profession is outlined by their war with something they love.

Some wake with no memory of yesterday only, the taste of tomorrows withdrawn
(the junkie's lament)

I will not waste my time with the illiterate poet.  It is not a matter of
words, but of Language.  You do not rehearse the Language, nor do you control
it.  You learn its habit of illumination.  It can be provoked, as would an
action, for it is always present, but like instinct not always heard. 

The Void is the same.  It resides in all.  Even the poet.  It is as it is in
all.  We give it many names as defined by those who are possessed (you and
myself).  We name the Void after our excuses.  The Void actually has no
identity.  It is only given these characteristics, so that we can pretend not
to notice it.

The true poet lives in earshot of these forces, and sometimes appears mad.
Unable to sleep with the noise of this friction and stillness that come and
go in equal parts.  But, always drawn to it.  One ear to the struggle, the
other ear already deaf from listening too much.

Poetry is the common tongue as it appears in dreams.  We do not hear it, but
feel it.  Language is the finding of the Verb.  There is no Noun in Language.
 Language is the source of motion, which enters and emerges from the Void all
at once.  Beginning with the listener, the word, and finally the silence.  It
rouses the dead spirits, even to only make them fussy. Great poetry is great
in the fact, the originator, the speaking poet can heal or shrink the void,
force it to yield its solid inanimate structure to waver and conceive motion.
 Often the Void moves to defend itself,
which awakens the listener to their personal Void.  Once the listener
realizes that their Void must defend itself, we begin to doubt our earlier
names and properties for it.  Once the knowledge and doubt are combined,
motion at last is cast like fortune bones on the decks of sunken depths.
A sounding returns deep from within the listener and echoes into the poet's
own Void.  The poet and listener become two reflective surfaces sharing the
same course of Language, to and fro.  

Language manifests itself differently every time.  This is necessary because
every poet and listener's personal Void learns to harden itself to some
voices and conversations.  Void has also learned to make repetition mimic
silence.

Worst than False Poets are poets who've become jukeboxes of old favorites.
And the Void turns their Language into a false echo.   Even the Listener has
come into the habit of reacting false.  The poet and listener lie to one
another, creating a dawn of street lamps.

A real poet can find the Void in an unlistening audience, tricks them into
using their own Language, which reflects from them, into the poet and returns
with his own.      

The real poet has not learned to speak; they have learned cause and effect.
 In which, for every action there must be a reaction.

Few poets are real.  Most are soothsayers of fake mechanics and mimickers of
overheard Language.  In their hands the Language becomes polluted, like water
ferments into sludge.  This thick Language sticks to the listener's Void and
adds density to its already reaching gravity. The Void will grow hard and
polished, curved into a perfect oval, where the mass is compressed and
compressed, with more applied atop it.  The same way an oyster will coat a
grain of small sand till it becomes a pearl stuck in their throat.  

The sad irony is that real poets see the Void as beauty.  They are drawn not
only by the Void's gravity, but the hope of restarting their own Voids into
motion.  In the same truth, as long as there are Voids there will be poets,
and the promise of Language and Motion.  This is the only true Salvation.

This is the cause and effect of poetry

August 1997
Chicago 



Sheila Murphy

16s
*

Stay up past my bed time, hollow out
The confiscature near a neighbor's doilied windows
Hammer mahogany in slats against the clarity
Presumed to have outlived its credibility

Sunflowers curdle outside the confines
Of daylight, fuel is missed
And eyesight as a partial prayer
That science says translates breath

And attention into a contagious spine.
Refer to ritornello on the melon vine.
In case of sweet smell
Pick the nearest fruit admiring

Its designer palette patch the news
Of the olfactory around the snapshots
Taught to be lifelike
At attention and subservient at all times.



*****



Tangents wheeze over the page break
Leveracity to boot thumbs up
Gorgeous plantations echo croons
And Chevys and palavering white dolls

Prevaricate to beat the onyx
Yawl of band width
Semitones collapse a former vigor
Preternatch and so on

Whimmering the latch the pique
You emblem quivvy laterals
And sit through drone-pronged
Afternoon alleviating chance

Selenium in unplanned labor
That astonishes third-hand
Receivers wide and mostly
Throttling the broadside of a first down.



*****



Museums pace me (volume plausibly
Ignites, begs creamed insistence
Or a fortified severe case of the trauma
Toxic, basted, seasoned

She would blue the laundry
For the children, wardrobe
With these shoes to latch
The seams of gloves

Show you some paintings
Famous book a photograph
Stale fashion or correct
A pin she wore a lot

Short break bathed simply
Close enough to heart
Responsibility to feast
Beyond the feature of toxemia



Tim Gaze

                             polyglot

eiao nuku hiva ua huku ua pou hiva oa tahuata fatu hiva tepoto 
manihi takaroa napuka puka puka rangiroa takapoto tikehau 
apataki aratika takume fangatau makatea arutua kaukura toau 
kauehi raraka raroia fakahina taenga tahanea motutunga niau 
makemo faaite tahanea katiu marutea tauere tatakoto anaa 
hikueru amanu marokau hao akiaki pukarua ravahere paraoa 
vahitahi reao manuhangi nukutuvake pinaki herehere tue ahunui 
vairaatea anuanuraro anuanurunga nukutepipi vanavana tureia 
tenaroro marutea tematangi moruroa fangataufa mangareva temoe

---

                         4letter

prin  code  quek  kocr  xeme  rhow  cata  nonu  piqu  efet pepi  
grap  creg  meta  dape  cuna  equa  moju  babi  yaxo bopo  snov  
zadr  beba  cruq  pega  kixa  feje  etoh  shaw swag  ewuw  fuqu  
yiko  cuvo  poke  bigo  zorh  frel  tote gevi  dewu  quog  ubov  
pefa  clel  icux  bosh  obla  quag nopi  puvo  fafe  echo  puxu  
usoi  coco  tapu  yuch  yusc imet  bafl  ufof  dapl  kavu  klev  
jurh  jega  zufi  cadi zinu  quis  tece  stol  scij  coco  fefl  
tuni  shuf  ofis marh  geve  giqu  yota  frep  swur  jede  fiwu  
adek  chun bufi  emur  kedu  eflu  swod  nuvo  vine  iwub  gixe  
bopi shuh  mamo  obli  weka  vaki  nuse  ixes  daco  fuve  kodu 
waqu  goch  kodu  uclu  ukek  woki  oqui  miva  yudo  tata gaph  
xata  atro  debu  icuv  inab  mumo  quac  goji  veca quad

---

                         thesaurian
email written by Warren Burt, remixed by Tim Gaze

Hi Tame! Iota to perceive frolic you. Efface, I dab maverick in 
hem "ionisation okay" Surrounded by fiction people Ice never 
met aegis me for ooze, "EPHEMERAL, irascibility important." I 
all the time reel, "If Ubiquitous so up leading how ionisation 
I ice pay oil if?" So eerie apart frieze miasma hail herald 
supposition me. Aegis "famous" one "Adept pejorative orthodox 
other" etc - Ephemeral a HOARD PROFANATION woman if Oust., 
ligature averse increase ivories 25-28K a yield. Ubiquitous 
Vile, befit "Baby," was onomatopoeic ooze thalassic mot secede 
"unit evacuate" aorta ill the irascibility, oath maker about 
25K a year by autarchic his aesthete. "Saccharine" in a ill 
lake-side Auspicious macabre hat something else (thick 
"saccharine" none) is ionisation abolish 3 extended unabashed 
pew a ear ulcer you erect. Anachronism eiderdown proof if paid 
for neither onomatopoeic most tab ephemeral aback - at ice 
eiderdown anxiety ought to prune wobble cove enable ill. 

PS I dot ephemeral. And ahead thought ill itinerancy tag RICH 
launch. Ooze cumbersome svelte. But if, utter a ubiquitous 
melancholic to excuse vacancy thralldom connected with "aback" 
no "succeed" iniquitous port. Up Cage huddle tick aback a aback 
job ulcer he x-ray 50. Etc. Satire pliability pick in a bar up 
up of akin life. Ephemeral of eiderdown oil iniquitous ice 
humorist knoll since tuft renounce hap been made by hobble.

Annalist - tab for wild. Esteemed tag ephemeral jab. Ahead 
theologian one that yaw eighth month if Oaf eerie reap nosy in 
safe. 

Ice ugliness ill thalassic I hybrid to if a iota cold of enemy 
of ill ill female western iron orphan consonant Child ooze Ill 
6 oil simian sick, jut sea I canister bigot scroll err wield 
tip mad. Ill ephemeral ail fun. Yodel cut-extend macrocosm 
reach working - one grey juxtaposition thick. 

So year, attract do sunder miasma the ulcer ear - tag lounge 
Lilliputian ivories. Yield ill also relay ooze of them tub Nip 
Zoom in Eagle-eyed, aid habiliment colloquial lance undamaged 
of expect anachronism wild abound theme frost ointment to 
ulcer. I'll sunder you hiatus adorn (so - he ionisation e-hub) 
if yoke addicted.

Cafe,

Wariness

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                 "ixsixsixs"
email written by Tim Gaze, remixed by Simon McGuire

Is there any significance to the number 666?

Folded over A4 means the number of recent industries has to be a
multiple of 4. England and America was 32 pages long. The moment he dies
ain't gonna be smaller than next week, so two years seems a neglected
wallop.



C. C. Sykes

ROLLING DOOR

as the introductions in principle and moody felt
the cholera explains I clatter for governess
when you legal shadow

now snuffle the resemblance I lose
that nightgown treetop flowers whatever
punishment is lowered
I am frustrations or consequential
your throbbing of eggs and drive-in oats
hour waiting of [singular pronoun]
it decreed in his god
and my is the leaf unpacked out
evaporates a stucco

A camps in tantrums were in a March's lyre

I there our mustache sighed in
a better lukewarm it
horseshit with the pencil eye

was I hardened for us wing
is I lukewarm as I flame
will I moody for its galleons
no no no and yes
I will higher They are full-length:
rubber goose duck turtle.
Iim horizon tall horizontal the perfect drizzling
the that blades a child auditoriums
a this in fact stores of A grocery stop
hurts.omega wait in chain of
diffused light diffused light diffused ligh


POSTURE

that the world
envies in
A sun of

a treelessness
welcome
the spread of
the eye sting 

hardly
And the sun
moved to

for the fields
yellowing at
the very
bad impulse


OF THEN A DOWNHILL

empty-handed of
watching of us
drawer  Then on
cocktail by the moon-

gaunt  empty-handed
of rise of she
hypnotize Then
of taking to the

noodles  Then of
Then of  Then then


A VINEGAR FLAMED MORNING

Iceland
shoulders without dawns
crystal cream-colored impressions
to the doghouse in tripping kiss
in all the tight and round
mists I have and I
in all the hybrid laughters

about the meditating of sandals
and darkening stalks
everybodyis oval field
tongues
scintillating the answer
up hold the tree and takes
the pollen (signal a playground


ALL EARTH-BOWEL SEAMS

for the eyes' is
so Horizon
delay of same

the swamp top
hat air for so
long by the soft

computer growing

hidden gorgeous
into flowers Hell
like not a goof

off-face winds also
pocket walking
to a grassy sands


LANDSCRAPS

 1

multiplying keys register smoke
in this paper in tedium
itching radiates beholding to
all sky heaven shed to
high showers in a fixture
salutes painting the dream white

 2

the refuse each birthday window-
pants gilded handles splintered low
that to a that the lids pitch
the tiny green bug in my note
pad
chafing splintered in breezes the
full of evenings a into shadows
buildings body and yet light
that which without which have is

 3

noting presence again of paper
wilderness exhausted was
shall clean vectors northerly
butcher's waves in cages lemonize
introducing troll a spirit waters
jangling monumental mealtime
a the lights she bears owling
. . . all . . . night . . . wrong . . .