Above Ground Testing Issue Number Four ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Greetings All. Another month and another issue of AGT is here. Let me again thank all of you for your visits, your sharing and your comments. I enjoy hearing from all of you. I must say I have found the challenge of putting together this ezine rewarding. I enjoy writing my own work, and reading your work. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Book Review: If you have read any of the previous copies of this ezine, or have visited my webpage, you know my opinion of Ralph. Well, there's now the "Ralph Book". It's a compilation of the first 25 Ralph poetry zines, plus additional material. If you like jazz, coffee, poetry and beat; this is the book for you. You can order the book through the Ralph webpage so check the link. I can tell you service is good, from Vancouver to Ontario in a week. If you're Canadian it will cost you $25.00. It's worth the price. Order it, wear a beret, brew the coffee, put on the jazz and read away. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ben sent me a number of short stories. He said they contain a hallowe'en theme. Happy Hallowe'en everybody. Blood Bleeds by ben ohmart The door closed and I heard the soft step of her half-pig, half-ballerina outfit. She met me leaning at the old rail and said, "Huh?" "I didn't say anything." We were looking at the moon being cut to pieces by wisps of clouds, then being reassembled as the earth went on turning. Her hands were gloved and I think it was part of the reason I was lucky enough to get one in the palm of my red hand. I was dressed up as Michael Palin dressed up as the Spanish Inquisition and she whispered seductively near my right ear "You're cute..." Then, the typical move off. To let me assimilate the information. On the swing back around, she was smiling, and settled some of her butt on the sturdy end of a deck chair. The wind was that cool near November air - well, it Would be November in just an hour or 20 - and the party inside was the kind your friends make you go to because you're threatened with missing something "cool". "Cool" was the reason for our lives back then. If it wasn't "cool", or even cool, you were always afraid of being on the outside. I wanted to tell her this. Some of these thoughts. But what if she was mainstream? I wasn't looking at her form, but her face was a kind of perfection. I didn't know what kind at the time, but I wasn't about to embarrass us into silence with radical thinking, so I just showed her the severed head. Screaming. Screaming. The music inside was too loud. But she ran to the door, but with my clean hand I put mine on hers, and said, "I didn't do it." Her eyes ate me for a second before she believed me, and then she went for my body, so I held her for a moment. Finally realizing enough to throw the body part away, as it wasn't doing anything for me. She believed me. Without question. And I always went for the ones who trusted. Trusted Me especially. I flicked her chin up like a switchblade, and going over to the patio table, slid the napkin from under my drink to under her eyes. There was still some soaking power left. She smiled like she didn't have a choice, and I gave her a little encouragement with my own until we'd decided there was reason to laugh. We glided to the rail again. Her breathing was that shallow sort I like in women, and I began to lighten up the conversation - and starting one - by pointing out the other anatomy parts, just within our view on the deck, scattered about the bushes below. First saying how old the bodies must've been. "I mean, look how high the shorts are up on that one.. part." That kept her calm. And we talked about the lives those people must've had, and I wondered how long this lock-in in the haunted house was going to take. "If we survive until 1 o'clock," she said, "........" and made a clicking sound with some part of her, and mimed a door unlocking. I smiled, and said of half an arm, "Man or a woman..?" For a moment, she looked, "mmmm"ing, gathering thoughts, and finally came up with a shrug. So I asked about what looked like a hip joint, but she looked at me and laughed, and she waited for me to say something. But we just talked through the time that seemed too fast for me. Waiting to be stalked. Waiting for things to happen. Even though the only thing that happened was our falling in love. Custody by ben ohmart The Godfather was sitting pretty deeply in the back, not wanting to know anyone, especially the stars. To him, the child looked golden. There was no silver medal. Just the one child, and the Judge was being sweet. The kid had the gavel to play with, the video game in his too small hand had been muted, and soon the court wasn't concerned with the clicking of the buttons. It kept one young mind off matters. Mother had much to say, but she had no grounds for that which the father accused. Threats on both sides, usually for the offspring's sake, but never a promise that couldn't be kept. The Judge did a lot of grand watch looking, but still they continued. There were too many valid points. And the Judge wasn't up to sentencing just yet. A tough call. It was a few minutes later. The Judge thought there was something wrong. What was it? Then he looked. The child was gone. And there was no clicking. The case recessed. Everyone who didn't care before now cried and cared about the child, and the cops were off on a hall hunt. Nothing. It kept up for a while, a local guard calling it in, though in theory there was nothing to be done, even with a Judge as a witness. The child had only been gone a half hour now. The Godfather talked to the child as an adult. The game was still going in the small hands, so it didn't matter. And by the time he got the kid to the new place, just leased that morning, the hot dogs and chili in the pan were steaming just as planned. The child launched into it. His favorite. The man knew. Hours went by, and the game's batteries were giving up. The Godfather put in a fresh pair. Always looking out for him. The child smiled. It was all worth it. The next morning the man went out for supplies. He had plenty, but he could never have too much. Besides, the papers would be out. And something like this. Bound to be a popular story. He reached for the paper. What were..... they... doing about it....? He scanned the paper. It was all the way on page three. Too many important things had happened that day. Still - page three. The Godfather smiled. They had no leads. The parents were worried sick. Good. He went into the local market. Now was the time to buy hair dye for the child. He needed a last look to make sure the child's hair was as fine as he'd remembered. Yes. And then some applesauce. Cheese crackers. The good kind. Fine. He went to the cold stuff and made sure the butter was fresh. Never enough butter. Then to the rumbling beverage dispensers. He opened the door, and held his hand on the milk before remembering. No. He had to get off the milk. He'd already planned for that. But still, his hand went automatically to it. No. No milk. The child wouldn't be on there yet. But he simply had to break the habit. I received 4 stories and decided on these two. The first reminded me of those delightful horror movies I used to watch on Saturday afternoon. The ones which used emotion and inference then slice and dice. The second one I chose because it was like those urban legends we hear about. Thanks Ben. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Poetry by T.J. DANIELS "Too Hot To Handle" You came into my life and stole what was mine. Now you'll have to suffer the same slings and arrows that pierced My heart. You'll discover that it's a special jewel. And that just Holding it burns the hands. And you'll learn as I it's Too Hot to Handle. "Under Lock And Key" I must protect my deepest painful memories. I Must protect them keep them under lock and key. They are Mine I Earned them I paid the price. I cannot loose them They have become part of me. But I must control them For if Not I will loose the fight and I Must win. If Not I will be dragged down down into that whirling swirling vortex of dispair. © Copyright 1998 by: T. J. Daniels T.J. gave me permission to go to his webpage and reprint some of his work. If you want to read more, I have set up a link on my page. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- What is? What is life if not a compilation of seconds, discombobulated syllables buoyant on the film of a stagnant river? What is a scrapbook if not shards of days pasted and taped on brown paper eventually doomed to crumble to ash like dust? What is time but a box holding together fragments of thoughts stringing the moments like beads, mismatched, twisted into a cosmic necklace too gaudy to wear, but too sentimental to burn? So, this is the sum of the parts -- the two plus two that never equals four. This is the open and shut door behind which is the checkerboard floor we play chess upon. I take your knight, you scale my tower. The pawns were never part of this game. Our kings and queens fell too soon; so we played, you and I, with our rooks our bishops, and our knights, stopping only at the first sign of light. -- Crackerjack2000 copyright 1998 -- ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cafe Expression At the table outside the cafe I sit by myself wanting you to stop and talk. we'll put on our shades and share another round watching the steam rise from each other's latte. we'll share some words a few jokes and opinions. then you'll leave and I'll watch you go, studying the delightful way you walk. and I will know it has been a good day. September is the month that doesn't know what it wants its the last good long weekend and the beginning of school blooming flowers and coloured leaves nature going in both directions. its still making up its mind is it summer or autumn holding fast, or embracing. its summer shorts and sweaters cold mornings and warm afternoons its September September was a funny month for me. It started out very bad. I mean just miserable. I had a good holiday and then back to work. It was work that turned miserable. I thought my poetry would be some depressive angst-ridden stuff: " my life sucks, this planet sucks, everything sucks..." But you know, it got better and some of my poetry reflects a much happier frame of mind. This is why I wrote "Cafe Expression". For further fun, read "Fashion Plate" - its posted. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- You may remember I asked the question: how do you write your poetry or prose I did get a response from Crackerjack- so enjoy reading. Over the years, I have written poetry on so many different surfaces; in this I feel like an artist who paints not just on canvas, but also on other materials: cardboard, canvas board, paper. What is most interesting, to take this analogy even further, is that the poetry is affected by where I write it. Below I have a brief synopsis of some of my writing experiences over the years: 1. Free Writing Journal: This is probably my favorite way to write poetry. I have a notebook and just write what I feel and think, not giving much thought to the art of poetry writing -- just freeform. These journal are very personal and not at all polished; they are raw. I also fill these journals with doodles (which I have heard people say are not at all "doodles" but works of art in themselves!) 2. Any surface I can get my hands on: These are the poems that just compel me to find anything to write them on! This is when I am sitting in a restaurant and am struck by an image that I fear I will lose if I do not pen it down quickly. I have written on napkins, coupons, receipts, envelopes -- anything handy. Since it is so very easy to misplace poetry written on these scraps of paper, I am sure to transfer them to the Free Writing Journal once I get the opportunity; yet they still have that energy, that feeling that says "hey, this was written as it was experienced!" 3. Thought Poetry: This is a rather tragic way I record my poems, because, in fact, they are never really recorded! Sometimes, when I can not fall asleep, I will lull my mind into a tranquil state by tossing around an image. The words come along as well along with word music. What is so tragic is that these poems are almost always lost because since the purpose is to help me relax and sleep, I am not about to break the calmness they induce by turning on a light and penning them down. Now, the next morning, I may remember the gist of what the poem was about, but the beauty of it is lost. It is a sacrifice, but, hey, I've got to sleep sometime. 4. Poetry by Computer: For a long time, I could not bring myself to write poetry from scratch on the computer or even re-draft the poetry on the computer. Writing my novels and short stories were no problem, but poetry? Somehow it seemed sacrilegious somehow to use a computer to compose poetry. Well, I soon overcame this and am glad for it. It isn't often, though, that I will free write my poems on computer (I still like the journal for that) but it is the computer that allows me to take all those bits of free thought poetry --in the journal, from the scraps, what I can recall from my thoughts -- and imbue them with the "art" quality. The computer is wonderful for this because it shows what the poem really looks like, which is important when paying attention to line breaks line length and the like. So in conclusion, I utilize many means by which to record my thoughts and help them evolve into poems. Sometimes they remain as they are originally penned, sometimes they are re-drafted numerous times. Any which way, though, they are creation and I am grateful for each and every one of them -unique in their own ways. -- CJ ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- As always, music has played a part in this publication. CD's listened to: Yo-Yo Ma: The New York Album; Leonard Cohen: L.C. The Best of. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. If you have a webpage and want it linked, let me know. Above Ground Testing is published monthly ( so far so good) by Paul Gilbert. Correspondence to: pabear_7@yahoo.com. Submissions always welcomed. ©1998 http://www.angelfire.com/on/abovegroundtesting/index.html