All copyright © 2003 remains with the authors.
All copyright © 2004 remains with the authors.



Side [synchronously, Grace Hartigan B-side]
part to part to whose
long racing line . . .
Mind to speak directly and objectively.
So-called primitive
delineated shapes,
solitary figure.

In the continuous surfaces
frame's edge intolerable.
Have a mythic or totemic picture,
legend & myth,
making it impossible to continue that boundless . . .

Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD USA / 11-26 (12:09 AM)


November 2003, Warrandyte

Spring afternoons by the river
(where once the Yarra
yielded gold, it now offers bush tracks),
you see more walkers than joggers,
more dogs than humans —leash-tangling
affable tail-waggers.

Spring floods surge
shadowed under the bridge:
the current tests the ducks.
Rare is the dog that trusts itself to the flow.
Watch that big lab —whatever its master flings,
in dives the dog, brings
it back, swings
wetly up the bank, barks for more.

Spring afternoons by the river
thirty years (half a lifetime) back,
I was the one
trusting body to the flow,
cautious always, being really no
swimmer, but submitting
thrilled to the surge to the rapids,
slip through the gap in the rocks,
dawdle then in the shallow
where a sheltered beach had formed
and the daylong sun kept the water warmed.

Stolid now we pace the bank path:
off-leash time for dog and me,
cautious always; water
beckoning with its old spring glitter.

Max Richards, Melbourne
7.30pm Wednesday 26 November 2003


Sculling clubs upon Yarra.

All-girl crews in blue-and-white jerseys the cox in red and on a bike path
a coach with a bullhorn "square your shoulders, girls."

All manner of birds not known—this one
the size of a small pigeon
white underside black back and a black
bib the rest pied feeds on the bank the beck
of bug and worm, the look of a bug and worm eater.
I make it fly so as to see
that its wings are striped white. Elegant
small black legs black eyes. Right next to me it grabs a worm
and swallows. A magpie
lark. Hark

Knees to chest the breast
flattened, vulva
presented. "And stroke!"

Make a muddy track
by the river.

Presuppose that it's dusk
and cloudy
on the cusp of Spring,
the city all around us.

Black swans with red beaks, a horizontal band of white
at the tip.
They feed on grasses.

Mark Weiss


New Moon

After a long day
facing darkness

working through
her latest heartbreak,

she is enticed out
for a change of scene.

Above the jagged
rooflines of shops,

there's a new moon
reclining palely,

in company with
the steady evening star.

Max Richards, Melbourne
11.00pm Wed 26 November, 2003


kerash - booming
ack ack spring
when will I live

try and roll along
this is an excellent length

but clouds sometimes
lower themselves

for all I know
lies under
boom that isn't cash

who is there to sit
urb them
or me

who can I run to

out into
low sky the walk
all the way


Jill Jones 26.11.03


seasoning in newArk: a discussion with my friend Yolanda
about tomorrow in three tongues--the bird, el pavo, turcai/

seas on soups on
it's the season,
"dice mi amiga"
"arsa m'chara"
chattering in thirty something degrees
in a light fleece wrap
it's the seasoning
not crisp like the lecho/n asao of navidad
the sound of craiceann, the skin of the body
of this flightless bird prepared with the herbs
adobo, ajo, sofrito sal y pimiento of eternal travel
what are the irish condiments, i wonder

but this turkey resists
two days of marination
                    "the turkey does not grab the seasoning"

close your eyes and pass the tofu
savor the flava, el sabor
the hint of leftovers
the last si/ob home, el tapo/n in bayonne
freedom until the rush
of monday morning

Newark, NJ
8:05 am
Deborah L. Humphreys


And Grow, For Anna

in St. Joe's eyes dart
did you call the priest
no response
hands cup Anna's head
so small -
my small hands
so much larger
not large as the pain
in her father's eyes
or the fears
of her new mother
the seizures are determined
our eyes focused today
tomorrow? next week?
the three of us, silently promise
to remain aware
to keep watchful
to love unconditionally
and grow, for Anna

Deborah Russell, 8:50am, 11-26-2003
Baltimore, Maryland
( four month old grand daughter)


past oral

after the long

an epitaph
etched in stone

the body's exclamations
each muscle rustle stopped

how having writ
the moving hand ditto

Douglas Barbour
Edmonton 07:50 November 26/03


all things stand

in appearance
with a weatherbeaten face

and the whole
full of woods &

represented a wild
& savage hew--


a world where
chaos & cosmos

are interlaced


anything can happen but not 2x

seehearsmelltastetouch as    all make believe--

thinking this

as I watch
November apples

West Irondequoit, New York 11:15 AM, 11/26/03
Gerald Schwartz



A body on the roadside: someone
has moved her to the shoulder,
or the driver got a lucky hit
that threw her back and sideways.
The State is so overpopulated,
what is one more or less on
a cold November morning
when people's minds are elsewhere?
Death is a commonplace on Jersey roads
so she goes unnoticed.
In the next lane, a driver
sits and shaves.
Another has her cell-phone,
yelling as though she matters.

On the roadside, the doe is intact
but her shapely head is bloodied.
Sometimes a traveler comes who is amazed
that we share--human and animal--
this sticky red commonality,
both symbol and reality of our transience.
In an hour the County will send a truck
to fetch her. Perhaps, though unlikely,
a workman will stroke her cold fur
and whisper words of their shared fragility.

KTW/11-26-03, 2 PM, Princeton, NJ
Kenneth Wolman


Ruby has cut a tooth - or rather,
a tooth has cut her:
                         all night
her cheeks flushed; she refused
to be lulled, lay stirring in
the middle of our bed, her right
leg thumping the mattress.

Dominic Fox, Leicester, UK
26/11/03 20:30pm


quiet light
turned to a flicker

my reflection in the window
melding into massy shaddows

in daylight the moulded dark
will solidify as distant hills

My Caravan :)
Liz Kirby
Heath Moor Farm
Rushton Spencer UK


Pastoral wandering cows with grass on the higher meadows
warm or dried dung on shoes the length of legs having slipped
sweat and cold alternating precipitously in shadow and light
an eagle circuiting above harsh wind blowing through your brain
the sky - perfectly terse like glass trims the world below
with white precipices rocks further up in the roughest accessible
with white snow blinding
iced teeth iced lips iced ears frozen thoughts
cracks earthly gurgles hollowing echoing smashing snaps
void and full-full and void the gushing air
pulled into a vertigo when slabs are under stuck boots
the wind ghastly throwing you away against your will

11.46 pm - Bozen - Anny Ballardini



still off
still gone
what a gift!
so much time
time to do
am accomplishing
am getting done
am getting ahead
already moved
several mountains
and larger foothills
but I do hope
that it will
come back

patrick mcmanus 16-41
raynes park UK


It would be fifty degrees Celsius standing here on the black soil at two
in the afternoon. I walk a few metres to the lighter clay spread out
some two hundred metres or more with round hard silica stones polished
by a glacier in the last ice age. The sun unshielded by the thinning
ozone layer turns my white skin crimson red. I get in the Land Rover and
drive a few kilometres south to the black basalt dyke with broken lumps
of heavy rock in the middle of the paddock. To the west as far as my eye
can see is a thin line of dirty green on the horizon. To the east blue
mountains once an active volcanic range. Back at the homestead the air
is still. My skin is simmering crimson hot. A black snake wriggles
quickly across the hot ground and into the fish pond garden hunting
green frogs. I pour myself a rum and coke and sit quietly sipping
in the shade of a garden bush. Late spring and the ants are busy
collecting food anticipating a flood to break the drought. I smoke a joint and
pour myself another rum and coke, waiting for nightfall. The first signs
of heatstroke begin.

Chris Jones


waking to loss, not knowing
what of, how--the next
oak leaf loss?--

weaving its way through linens
& a freezing still-
gone word loss--

not cold temperature, no:
that timed, short motion--
life until,

hearing the piped catch
of fuel-engine-strut
outside I

can see exactly how
this idea globe has
no idea

of clear loss, how loss will suck
dry every corner:
lost beings--

Modersohn-Beckers, umbra
cradles I have thought
more of (less

loss--sun more lumin to float,
substanceless uber-
shadows to

scarve the still-working-face) my
friends, flat loss, reading,
even as

sun smacks the balm of day's luck,
that unheard shake of it--
loss aloud

Chris Murray Dallas, TX 26 Nov 03 11:47 p. m.


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