Welcome to the New Year issue of the Zine. I hope the year is starting off good for you. I got a couple of electronic Christmas cards, I'll have to try that next year. By now, the turkey is a memory except around the waist or the hips. I survived it all as well, which makes sense, since you are receiving this zine. So, we have a new year to enjoy or survive. We should enjoy it, since if we listen to the hype, the world will end on January 1, 2000.

What's New at the Web Page

I've decided to bury 'Newpage.html'. I just didn't have the time to work on it and make it a good page. The poems will probably be listed with my regular work, so watch for them and other poems with a science fiction theme.

If you have a link or know a cool poetry link, write and let me know. I have been visiting some of the various poetry web rings and seeing what's out there. An interesting one is the "Lucid Dreams" webring. It's emphasis is goth. There is some fabulous work out there, both poetic and graphic- take the time to study.

The book covers his life, from his birth in Montreal to his life in LA and Mount Baldy ( a Zen monestary). It covers the various influences which have shaped his life and his thinking. The book begins with quotations dealing with his music, which was considered music to: "slit your wrists to..." and that he was the "poet of pessimism".

The book emphasis, I thought, was on the spiritual influences and quests that have been an important part of Cohen's life. From his Jewish upbringing to his study into Zen Buddism. The book has looked at the people of Cohen's life, such as Irving Layton, Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan. It has looked into the lovers but it is not a "kiss and tell" kind of book. Certainly a Ladies Man would have had much of that, but it is absent. I think that is one of the strengths of the book, it has kept away from the tawdry and concentrated on what's been important. The writer deals with the depressions which have been a part of his life, perhaps an inspirational part of his life.

Overall, it has been an enjoyable read. Find the book and read it. If you are a fan, it will give you even more reason to appreciate his work.

Poetry and Prose

Feet Caught In The Dark
by ben ohmart

The stop sign said all ways but only 2 of them paid any attention. Jon was crushed instantly, but hadn't lived a good enough life not to feel any pain. He survived just until the ambulance got there, and no more.

Gol didn't get very far for a few blocks. Rubbernecking all the time. The truck was on fire, and the little car made in a country far, far away was still trying to figure out which way the metal should go. He'd called three digits on his car phone, but wondered if it was Really enough. How do you go about rescuing people from burning things? Do gas tanks really explode after you pull them free, or do they really care? Still, he managed to make good time to Buffalo.

"Hey! Good to you see!" his boss had said. He was always getting things twisted around.

"I got here as -"

"I know, I know, look." He poured drinks and adjusted a tie that was having trouble just at the clip-on. "We've got a situation." He explained.
"I see." Gol was thinking about my position in the company.
"Think about your position in the company," he said.
"That's what I'm doing."
"I realize it's not a nice thing that has to be done." He leaned back and sipped something that hadn't dissolved in water yet. "But it's part of the reason you don't have to punch a clock. Management is a part of the horse. And you're an important part of that horse, Gol."

"Thanks, Lanin."
Gol was handed a non-stick bucket and 2 sacks of the krinkly noodles you put over Chinese dishes. The secretary gave him typed instructions coming straight from the head of the company, and directions on how to get to the power plant. He also found a tape wrapped in an expired condom awaiting notice in his managerial mailbox. It read OPEN ME QUICK.

In the car, he plugged the tape into his player, pocketing the destroyed condom just in case. A man droned on about O.J. Simpson being only 1 of Many ex-football players involved in satire movies, the last track made up of a vocal montage of Elle Fitzgerald standards played at the speed of the kind of light that drunks experience on a Sunday morning. Gol understood and proceeded.

Finding a good patch of grass 2 miles away from the first sign of parking lot on plant grounds, Gol removed his supplies and gave himself a few minutes to unstring the cassette tape. It tasted awful going down.

It tasted worse coming up.
He wasn't sure about the admissibility of vomit, and just decided not to touch it. Chances are if it didn't go down the first time...
The plant was dark. It was a holiday. Still the guard on duty had nothing better to do, so let the man pass. He knew Gol well.

Going up the 3 flights, Gol was standing on the air-loading dock, trying to tell himself that it was all for the good of the company. He tried to move. He couldn't. His feet were stuck, but his hand went to pry loose the something, there was nothing recognizable but dark. Beating this pyschological hazzard with flailing thoughts, he decided to move his feet, and they worked.

Looking over his shoulder, Gol bent down. There was no one there. Still, he waited the few minutes he could afford - it was all timed out so well - to make sure that there was no loyal employee screwing with his schedule. Normally, he'd love to see such dedication. That day, he could fire any man who came around, with real flame.

No one. Knees to ground, Gol bent as far as he'd go. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. A steady tide of moon sank to his aid. The thick polish of the copter-landing cement caught just enough. And Gol began to wipe the bird doo from the floor.