We Magazine Issue 17


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7


	Editors:  Chris Funkhouser, Belle Gironda, Ben Henry, Katie
	Yates (Albany); Angela Coon, Eric Curkendall (Bay Area); Jay
	Curkendall, Roddy Potter (New York City); Stephen Cope, James
	Garrison, Greg Keith (Santa Cruz)

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	Please reproduce this document across cyberspace
	as you see fit. We look forward to receiving comments,
	questions, complaints or poetry from anyone.

	Please inform the editors c/o cf2785@albnyvms.bitnet

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	We Press
	Postoffice Box 1503
	Santa Cruz, California  95061



	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  1


		People have poem holes in the tops of their heads.  This
	comes as a surprise to many people.

		If you close your mouth and hold your nostrils, and
	blow, you will feel the pressure against the tops of your heads.
	In this way people are like whales.

		Some times small sounds are emitted from these holes.
	In most people, it is whimpering and sniddering--sounds that
	one would dare make only when alone and perhaps not even
	then;  disturbing sounds, not representations but the sounds of
	the emotions themselves--the sound of loneliness, the sound of
	the fear of death, the sound of horniness....

		The hole may also emit sounds when one is with a
	rambunctious crowd of happy people having fun, but they are
	quiet sounds and hard to hear.

		Poets cultivate this pressure until the thin membrane
	covering the poem hole ruptures and begins to emit the high
	whining shounds of the self.  These are poems. These learn to
	modulate the sounds, so they do close order drills, in perfect
	step, like a marching band or a troop of tap dancers.

		Most people go to some lengths not to hear them: watch
	television, listen to loud music.  Above all they interpret the
	sounds.  If the poet writes I am happy happy happy, we know
	this is not true, and we have developed a large, well-paid class
	of professional critics whose task is to interpret the poets'
	writings,so we will know that the letters in "happy, happy,
	happy"  must be rearranged as ppphay, pppyahyah,  ppphay,
	pppyahyah--the saddest and most sniddering syllables in the

		Two parties have developed around this discovery: one
	believes that people have always had poetry holes; the other
	believes that they developed recently in human history,
	perhaps as recently as the 17th century.

		I am inclined to think it has always been there.  The
	report of poetry is consistent: people are miserable, their girl
	friends or boy friends are mean to them, they no sooner learn
	how to get along in life than they start becoming ugly and tired,
	then they die.

		It is now known that the poetry hole can be closed with a
	simple surgical procedure. It has proven effective and
	permanent; it is highly recommended.

			Don Byrd

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	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  2


		Discontinuous Autoharp

				for Rebby Sharp

		Oh how you
		Undo me raspberry phosphate
		Raptors from the rafters call me
		Rhapsody in gumball kazoo

		Consonantal harmonies adrift
		Lazeeboy rafts Richmondesque
		Gape odalisque refigures teething
		Mortals at last outlined

		The farthest South Jasper can imagine
		A gay plum bun, a purplish heard
		I want your lyric sheets
		Here's the $2.45 plus postage

		Falling down on the Job
		Quietly elevating babies
		Hymn Sings amongst the decay
		Racoonbats with rabies

		Tar buckets filled with guess what
		kind of snake like autocthonic scales
		Techtonic plates shift under Chris
		My friend and fresh met frisker

		Too tiny for words much less
		song where does poetry belong
		Everywhere or in this little box

		A gentle Rod spoils no child
		Sweet fathers I know and mothering
		Blue books and goddard girls slighter
		Mercies figure in my mouth

		Surprising metallic retail Joan
		shows up among the unknown
		Uncle in grey turt looks spiff
		No spliffs but tamales fille

		Bear reads wine and bows for
		mercy missed it Jasper says it
		Sister then in cat favor
		deliberately shys from meaning

		Clearly stanzas must stand for
		transfers sevens eights or song
		I've always been a visitor where's
		my absentee ballet?

		Quilting is not one of the skills
		A longer line might consist of
		Catskill association at best Beth
		balls the jack and the salty dog rags

		No more slavery above the trembling bed
		A robin red breast in a cage
		While visions of sugar plums dance in our head
		Puts all of heaven in a rage

		Despite clinging peaches
		The south maintains its sticky hold
		As that moss dies away
		A new Kudzu emerges
		In the water this time

				Lee Ann Brown

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	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  3

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	The beginning says Rabies the end says Rage
	these words are related like Yewtree and If
	across the separations we endow with water

	this is a staircase leading to the static
	I listened to all night from Cinicinatti
	thinking it godly on the warm brown radio

	when a high mass from Boston answered the night
	reasoning It is Christmas the life around us
	congests with literal-mindedness

	and all these people we see hurrying in the street
	rain or no rain are in fact sinister translators
	searching for some primal certainty

	they can market as an Equivalent ohime there are no
	equals signs built into this svelte cosmos
	no room for indentities in this joyous vast.

		Robert Kelly
		answering the quick thought of Lee Ann Brown, hello.


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  4

	- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
	      Hunger is a signifying system:
	the ground
	                                  and precondition
	of knowledge                      of itself.
	Outside of hunger
	                                  hunger can't mean.
	Inside of hunger
	the movement of the body is not desire
	                                  but hunger
	re produces itself.
	The body is a sign
	                                  disappearing into hunger.
	Outside of hunger
	                                  the questions about freedom
	could have to do with art
	or driving in New Jersey.
	Inside of hunger
	                        there are no questions about freedom.
	Hunger                  answers itself with the body
	the body                answers itself with the body
	the answer                              is hunger.
	Inside of hunger
	                        the silence stands for a scream.
	Outside of hunger
	      silence stands for silence.
	                Belle Gironda
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	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  5


	How to Compose

	Stay away from musical instruments. Write
	anything as long as you can hear it inside.
	Mary had a little lamb. Practise hearing this
	until it replaces internal monolog at all hours of
	the day and night. Subject it to augmentation,
	diminution, inversion, retrograde, series. Break
	it into pieces, hear it major and minor. Remember
	continuous variation is the natural state of the mind.
	When you can hear it run through variation after
	variation without interruption forget it. The ear is
	ready. Listen to the body. When you hear 13 breaths
	per 72 heart beats the chaos of aural data falls into
	writable patterns. This is the voice of the muse.

			Steven Taylor


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  6


	not thinking matters under smoothness

			Stacey Sollfrey


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  7

	: + : + : + : + : + : + : + : + : + : + : + :+ : + : + : + : + : + 


		Todo lo que de vos quisiera
		es tan poco en el fondo

		porque en el fondo es todo

		como un perro que pasa, una colina,
		esas cosas de nada, cotidianas,
		espiga y cabellera y dos terrones,
		el olor de tu cuerpo,
		lo que decis de cualquier cosa,
		conmigo o contra mia,

		todo eso que es tan poco
		yo lo quiero de vos porque te qiero.

		Que mires mas alla de mi,
		que me ames con violenta prescindencia
		del manana, que el grito
		de tu entrega se estrelle
		en la cara de un jefe de oficina,

		y que el placer que juntos inventamos
		sea otro signo de la libertad.

				Julio Cortazar


		Everything I'd want from you
		is finally so little

		because finally it's everything

		like a dog going by, or a hill,
		those meaningless things, mundane,
		wheat spike and long hair and two clods of earth,
		the smell of your body,
		whatever you say about anything,
		with or against me,

		all that which is so little
		I want from you because I want you.

		May you look beyond me,
		may you love me with violent disregard
		for tomorrow, let the cry
		of your coming explode
		in the boss's face in some office,

		and let the pleasure we invent together
		be one more sign of freedom.

				translated by Stephen Kessler
				first publication in English

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	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  8


		When he gets depressed

		he likes to sit around the house
		and clean his guns.
		He's got a .45
		she shines like the sun.
		She'll blind an officer of the law
		before the first round
		enters the chamber.


		the man down.
		the man down.
		the man down.

				Charlie Mehrhoff


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  9


		Ode to a Dead Tree

		Locust clouds o' car alarm angels
		drag strips 'n tearin' its petals
		flutter stunned brushed aside
		into a branch topplin' out a blobber
		o' bastard smeared oil across the dirt
		almost bloodied in its kackin'
		clanks drained into duck chalks
		gooed root of a wander
		this tree pulled itself dynabrite
		ivy red visions o' smells
		when i drowsed neath its bows
		its memories dug up its colors
		'n horn tangles of my banjo hair
		boiled all round about it
		florescing encrusted
		many beautifull parasites themselves
		withered by all sorts of jewells
		winkin' in codes at extinction
		blinkin' back galactic insecticides o'
		bizarre liquors enrichin' the barshling
		maw twigs that moo death quills
		of the leaveless pecked hen jostled
		plover thatch mars bowled
		from a stratum of eye sand
		where still nestle families
		o' tiny nocturnal moons
		their young emerge uncrinklin'
		their buckles,"Good Moanin'."
		to the stars at midnight.

		Roast this damned book!
		Hurl this damned terminal
		have mercy on the poor tree!
		'n screw yer eyebulbs
		into the  nests of
		yer breath sockettes 'n Memory
		stretchin' 'n strewlin' cloths
		of the bilge blatherins
		'round trees in the ear
		that blimp up their crust flowers o' pestery
		that wig snarl the light shrubbering
		shatterers  o' the eyes o' nails
		that flesher 'n thresh the arms
		'n wolf torn charts of rotten life.
		It jettisons boulders from tree hell
		from the eternall eye of pools
		where plucked him his he floppets
		to hurl he him away
		as a butterfly through milk caverns
		of a smog monster's bone
		millofferin' to a slobster o' cuffles
		flubbin' the moldy strings
		strummin' a moggled bluckle
		like grisly batz crunch up at a rubber o' skies.
		Sub-nests o' pooch nubs
		flopperin' nest fins hunker'd down in
		flunk mills o' drabbin' clomps
		eat their mind apples  off
		drunk on sun tan lotion
		lasherin' with pullets on the branchin' tiers.
		coilin' trains o' konked funks
		duh duh the factual tautological
		into whirly jellies o' book holes
		quacked  out in strewlins' o' gardenin' mudz
		tonguin' suns of the beast
		in glam junglins o' crabs
		hockerin' and rackety poety repeeyoubluckuhs o' dumplin' kickery
		their hog blob humpettes
		weavin' wrecks under the tossled mopules
		at the great waddled baggering of the ruptured blue
		unfold the fingerling masklettes
		who'd once candied and pumped
		all the great paintins of the age
		on a plum lozenge up Swiss Miss's nose
		waterin' coffee with  the bees
		of her eyes buzzed out at a noise
		which is why she's blind
		butterfingers of 'er hands
		nudge draculas off divin' boards
		into a meanworld o' pretzles drivelling
		jackled yackette mush bah bahs
		muttled 'n twisted up in butts o'
		Bach-o-licks janeing welsh
		with a jowell eyed gem of ripening
		flame fruit overhead
		faintlettes endin' flowerin' in burrs
		of branchin lexicons snarled wowin'
		wang flop of its final fold
		snot wrecked
		washin' up on the land of God
		where money is leaves that flunked.

				Eric Curkendall


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  10

			No. 39

		two cameras sitting by the view sitting next
		to the view but forgetting the view and
		photographing eachother instead two cameras
		sitting by the view of eachother two cameras
		open eachother up photographing eachother's
		insides next to the view two hundred times
		to you, two you you you you you two cameras
		photographing then opening up and losing all
		their pictures you have lost all your possessions
		you have lost all your possesions you have
		lost all your possessions you are your possessions

				India Hixon

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  11

		Inscription for a Sundial

		before the before
		Yeshe Tsogyel
		(The female Buddha)
		Made noon
		From a lovesong

				Tony D'Arpino

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  12
		        Book Three
		had not the birth but certainly was groomed to it
		tied-up night upon night to catch
		                could not & then would not
		but had in mind
		the closing of her hand
		the clearing of weapons from her pockets for Spring
		how could?
		soft by moth lip - relief
		surmise it this way.
		restrained as in handle
		handle of a saw - slow, slowly
		to be sure.
		with more than curved intimacy
		children stuck in the folds
		nothing but leisure
		nothing to change
		        rode to bedlam
		        archangel garb
		god is a night owl
		oil is the fire of paste me to a sprocket
		double / inside dew
		force - drag on
		        replica (made masque)

		                Katie Yates

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o 

	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7 ,  V o l u m e  13


						for Jonathan Williams

	"this product may not contain all or any of the items depicted"

			Pierre Joris

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7  *  V o l u m e  1 4

		The Constitutional Rye Convention

		was held July 1st, 1874 in Omaha,
		Nebraska. It consisted of the gov-

		ernor + legislature + forty-five or
		fifty (the records aren't precise) rye-

		raisers from all over the state. They
		were tired of wheat + corns' attempts

		at making a new constitution. They
		said the new one was supposed to be

		developed around the rye seed. No
		more talk about "ears" of corn.

		The pure seed. The pure seed-teeth
		of the bushel constitution. Wilson

		Oot, from Rhumbach, said he wanted
		people to understand how much rye

		reflected the state's values:  cold-
		hardy, productive under the worst

		possible conditions, a bit sour, hard
		to get along with, but always there.

		They said they'd put that in. They
		liked that. It sounded good.

				R. Kimm

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	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7  *  V o l u m e  1 5

			A Woman Tells the Truth About Her Body

	Beth Beauteous. Her face is her fortress. These lines she designed.
	Insists that this is beauty is. Smaller eyes in that lunar
	moonface. Fine smile. Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet. Chocolate
	kisses. She opens for the treat. An insatiable hunger precedes the
	onset of blood.

	Beth Bleeding. Creative juices. She gives birth to words, not
	children. Beth control. Her body does not create life. Sex is not
	simple. She can't tell where her cunt ends and where the rest of her

	Beth Bareass. Embraces the mirror. She does not create her body.
	She respects the imperfection. In this temple, artifice is

	Beth Beanbag. A woman's loyalty to her shape is misinterpreted. She
	survives inside a body which counts against her. Her only revenge
	is in loving what she has been taught to despise.

	Beth Bounces. Braless. Her shape changes as she moves.

	Beth Broadcasts. Freedom is contradictory. Deviation translates as
	defiance. A banner you carry in your mind. Your body is another
	kind of emblem. Service stripes around your eyes, part of the art.

			Beth Borrus

	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7  *  V o l u m e  1 6


		[Words and phrases were taken from Katherine Mayo's book,
		Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1925.]

		Will you spare a moment
		on the meat   why  how  we. Not
		to influence but   once and again
		       to present.
		We have not know what those voices stood for
		that over 80% have worms   which is simply
		   to present.
		         And yet.  The mere journey
		which is accurate  and so being myself
		free to go   the mere
		takes more time than most
		    can consecutively spare
		        on the meat  why  how  we.
		my fellow countrymen.  As thankless
		a job as a grave question.  The Mark I mere
		determined your island   the question
		a grave.  Responsibility a small child wailing
		        that particularly struck a stretch
		on the bare floor of the jail.
		my fellow
		                  a GRAVE
		RESPONSIBILITY       and a stretch
		For example   THE PLEA OF THE WOMEN
		        Average income of average family
		        of five persons per year 1924
		a distinct race?   so that almost
		      anybody's head might do.
		Due to mingling and upon whom
		the grip of money is a soul compliance

		simply a biological fact     perched
		like a toy of killing (quaint little figure)
		         but it would have been unfair
		to expect him to develop
		character   for want of a cockfight
		        and rarely in that mental makeup
		can scarcely compel
		And I hammer at them  simply
		how to save   how to raise chickens.
		And to show them the need.
		Yet in his vanity.
		Out of pure defiance at the velocity indicated.
		Not a shining righteous. Nor any of it.
		a remarkable magnanimous Mr. Taft.
		We have not eaten dogs since   although
		in a sort of holy war  we have been
		          very hungry
		We repaired  elaborately surveyed  enlarged
		framed  amended  imported  reformed  made
		of Manila a pleasant almost clean. Meantime
		        which is simply to present
		Accurate   and so being myself a grave
		question (ablaze with pity) calling soldiers and a-b-c
		     to teach   and chloride of lime marched
		        with the marching flag.

				Jean Vengua Gier

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	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7  *  V o l u m e  1 7

		he is the highest apple

		on my tree

		ripening to a bushelful:

		drop, pretty one, drop


		until he sang

		i didn't know my heart

		had so many


				Nancy Dunlop

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o


		of light slicing
		a hall into webs

		of leaf between two

		have come in oblique
		leaps to a place,

		stacked trick on trick
		to reach it-

		this solar tremor-
		tap heat &

		movable heart of
		red wood.

				Michael Weaver

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

		from STANCE

			another driven plot, however

			falls away, leaves

			to be stood on, askew

			between holes where

			halls, now space where

			form from one's only


					Stephen Cope

	 o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

	When the owl comes down and sits on the top of the birth pole
	The unremarked messenger sidles from behind Corona Borealis
	Breathless with complaining. A human life is more important
	Than anything. And it says it again. To language is to listen.

			Robert Kelly


	W e  M a g a z i n e  I s s u e  1 7  *  V o l u m e  1 8


	"Most                   Host
	newcomers               of neophytes
	fail                    are incompetent
	to realize              in the vision thing.
	just                    A deluge
	how much                if immaterial
	information             knowledgeware
	can be packed           is in constant flux
	into a                  time is of the essence
	30-second               the essence is a gopher
	animation               the soul has sunk deep
	segment"                into the spine.
	[High                   [Low
	Performance             Performance
	Computing               Living
	Review                  Preview
	March                   April
	1993]                   1993]

	Joachim Frank