Saturday, October 30, 2010
I’m reeling it in, A Virginia Reel across the strings
Plucking the lower keys with my big toe,
Lay my toes
across the mahogany,
my mahogany southern body
my key, my white teeth clacking middle C
This is where I’ve ended up
blood flowing through ivory
dear elephant who never lived on my street
but dies in the living room each time a third grader
huffs her way through Chopsticks.
Bow your head to the pachyderm tapped in every note
Bow your back to the staccato plea of each key
And each tiny bum on the leatherette bench
One key per breath,
finding the space between the notes,
that gap-toothed smile
with an airport security screener.
"Please remove your shoes," she said,
"and place them in the bin."
I stared at her, unable to speak,
grateful - so grateful -
for the lilt of her voice.
"Sir," she said,
"remove your shoes."
Outside it was snowing.
All around me, anxious travelers
divested themselves of their
I crawled onto the xray belt.
"Scan me," I cried.
"Look into my heart.
See that I am an
Friday, October 29, 2010
|Art from http://habit-of-art.blogspot.com/|
2. Real shit is the wealthy business man who purchases a first class ticket to Cambodia in order to rape a ten-year-old enslaved in a brothel from which there is no escape.
3. Real shit is the mountain of refuse on the outskirts of Manila that regularly avalanches down to bury the children skipping rope below.
4. Real shit "happens" all right, but lets not diminish that truth with a dumb shit sticker tacked onto the bumper of a chunk of metal spewing real shit into the life-sustaining air we breathe.
5. Real shit "happens" because we allow it, dispense it, toss it, fan it, eat it, smoke it, sling it, and imagine it into existence.
6. Real shit begins when the sperm of greed meets the ovum of dark fantasy and births naked carefree indulgence.
7. It's not what a human ingests and which later drops into the latrine that equals real shit, said the Rabbi; it's what oozes from the dark corners of the human heart that stinks up the world.
8. Hitler's real name was Adolph Shitler. Mao's real name was Mao Tse Dung. Stalin's real name was Joseph Shitionovich Stalin, otherwise known as Little Shit. But despite their atrocities, let us not think that we are less capable.
9. Real shit is the 10 acres of tin foil manufactured each day to wrap eighty million Hersheys Kisses made of chocolate originating, by the way, from the Ivory Coast cocoa farms where child slaves work 100 hours a week making us happy on Valentine's Day.
10. We are shit athiests refusing to acknowledge the existence of shit we can't see. Which is why the plastic pebbles swirling in the Pacific now cover Hawaiian beaches and catch in the throats of gulls and crabs but don't really bother us much.
11. Real shit isn't the dog feces on the bottom of the shoe. Real shit is the shoe on the top of the dog feces made of materials that won't decompose any time soon.
12. Real shit is the plastic straw and styrofoam cup into which I stare in my daily Starbucks ritual.
13. But then again, who really gives a shit.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Strolling through a college town is like playing lead inspector
in some curbside murder mystery —
clues strewn everywhere in the gutter —
broken glass, an abandoned shoe, latex gloves,
a boutonniere that lost its bud, leaving only lace, brown ribbon, and a pin.
Who done what to whom and why?
Even the police drive those humming little hybrid cars,
which sneak up likewise on pedestrians and bad guys,
and when elections roll around
a slate of suspects reveal their motives
with little plastic signs posted on every other lawn.
In autumn, a cast of characters arrives,
dressed to the nines and rushing in out of the rain.
They bear boxes packed with military precision
and a series of bags marked with a Target.
It’s all smiles and bright expectations for the pursuit
of knowledge, pussy, and some really good parties.
Yet we all know, as they innocently lug
freshly painted bookshelves up the stairs,
that at least one of those objects has a bull’s-eye on its back.
Winter is the time of appliances.
Everyone has an alibi:
vacuum cleaners gargling carpet, dryers churning denim,
and the incessant tap-dance of computer keys.
It’s enough to send a man over the edge.
Instead, walk the streets at dawn when everything is silent
or late, when it’s all reveling stereos and studious tequila shots.
Bang! Suddenly it’s May, and they return to the scene of the crime.
Threadbare sofas, moldy futons, and the odd barber chair
come outside for air, lining up on the sidewalk
alongside the milk crates and cinder blocks
pressed into service as undergraduate furniture.
The ringleaders strand them there by the dumpster
and head home for summer, gossiping
about who done what to whom and why.
But despite parole, garbage like that don’t last long on the outside.
Soon enough, it’s swept up by another gang,
thrown in a dormitory cell, where,
surrounded by the scent of bud,
it must hold up a liquor store for one more year.
Monday, October 25, 2010
my mind was a recycling bin
like a blender with a wonky blade
cattywompus cerebellum bloating and blistering bubbling
i would never have thought the trash i pick up on my morning stroll
would be the thing i tossed in the brain
of me, head hinged up like the hood of a car
hoping for recycling as a poem
of course there is no such thing as trash
really. it was a word first applied to humans in 1604, in othello
comes from the norwegian "trask" ("'fallen leaves and twigs'") which reminds me that the trasks
daughters were friends of my older sisters',
and that they only ever ate on paper plates which they then threw out
a form of women's liberation, no dishes: trash eating on trash
one of them, the younger, d.,
beat me up when i was in kindergarten
what does it mean to be pulped by garbage? lower than low
i can tell you
my memory, half used refuse, brailles over the date: 10-25
knowing seventeen years ago something significant happened on this day
but the letters have faded off the page of my memory like scuffed newsprint mouldering in a recycling bin
instead of trying to figure it out, dig through the boxes of papers carefully
sequestered on basement shelves (the same storage system as my dead wife)
i just hunker down in the midst of an october storm that promises to rip every gorgeous
[indescribably colored which we will call] crimson leaf off the dogwood:
there are ghosts in my blender
my feeble brain, my lower than trash trash compactor
to make paper
you take the riffraffand duff, the broken bits, the shredded paper refuse, the trask
and blend it - all the letters and meanings bleed out into pulp
and then push it on a screen, flat, and let it dry
memories in my recycling bin brain are just so, reconstituted
my grey matter, pulp and my memory a pulping screen
taking the glimmering memories, faded lettering, and bits
and making something new, something clear, a canvas for the coming day
soon we will move beyond othering and there will be no other-than, no refuse
no refusing, only this recycling alzheimer-like montaging
or even less than this, no trash to pick up, a time
when our dead fade and the ghosts stop yammering
[a time of erasure?]
a time of clarity and peace
Taurus Moon, Scorpio Sun
Friday, October 22, 2010
This is your wand/feather fan. You’ll be glad to have it.
You know where to go. First and last step is listening.
As you enter, brush the foreheads of the moss-covered cousins as you pass them. Bow before entry, first at the door, then at what you know to be the sanctuary.
Bow to the stone people. There is a seat waiting for you. Take it.
Put the Spanish moss on top of your head. Not a peep from you.
You can’t still the voice in your head. It is making little assignments even now, or rehearsing speeches, or making up recipes, or witty poems—listen to everything but that.
Every cousin around you is calling its name in your ear. Every auntie is baking delights for you in the spent grass and rotting leaves beneath you.
Turn away from your own thinking. YOU have already thought 90% of this yesterday, and the day before. Turn, then, and let wind be your lover. Let it kiss every pore. Lean into the tree behind you—it knows all the secrets and then some.
Notice the mysteries of the scat by your foot. Shh. Quiet. There is something we have to tell you.
here’s the catch: this will save you, but only if you don’t expect it to. Sometimes a breath is just a breath. Sometimes it is as lonely as a siloh.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
before now, when lemon tasting was the thing
that short teachers with large hair dedicated to
used to wake us up
that is what woke me up
now the lemon wakes me still, in the Rockies of Colorado
a bright limn of rose and lemon rind 7,652 paces closer to stars
the first hint of light brings up the point
that we are cradled by rock mothers
whose shoulders are taller than any ever
held me other than skybirds
they are drawing us around, these stars,
and the mountain arms, pulse of starbeings hidden in october snow
from the land of neversummer glaciers, a landscape with
kinship to the moon, where marmots whinny and pica scamper
above the thrillion elk bugling in praise
binocularless, on the ledge of wind, ground iced in mounds
she handed out a plate of lemon slices and it was passed
hand to hand
across the too-many square desks with plastic chairs attached in long rows
(California schools after Prop 13)
she handed out the plate of lemon slices and read us a poem,
forgotten now. she prepared us, woke us up to pay attention
we each had a lemon slice on our 2x2 plastic fakewood desk top
like a mountain, as sunrise, light itself, she woke me up
to pay attention: healing touch, savor, bugle, flavor, lemon
and today, more than thirty years later, more than
15,000 turns of the earth round the sun
what i remember is biting into the lemon
a galaxy opened within me
my mouth, a portalway
my tongue, a dragon waking
my mind, the canvas of creation
mrs. woolf and her lemon slice woke me
i have been awake since
stalking the night and the day
perhaps it's the sun's fire we sense
in the moments when the mountains turn us over
to day, that flash of pink and lemon
the creative fire, each day, a bite of lemon
waking us up waking me up waking me up
waking me up to mother mountains of the world this morning,
the 15,828th day of lemon-tasting earthrising brightness
pink dosey doe's with bright and a hit of the blue that beacons night transition
and summons day. the mountain mothers of the world roll us over
in our slumbering, a gentle touch
showing the way
the mountain mothers of the world
roll us over
in our slumbering, a gentle touch
showing the way
raven who likes shiny objects draws the pink light in her beak
smearing it like a thin jelly across the mother mountains' shoulders
singing wolf lets loose the nightsong turned morning
lone pine in a party lets loose the arms that will embrace the new light
a splendor arises
a splendor arises
mountain chickadees croon lemon rinds from stars and snow
mountain mothers of the world gently turn us over from our slumbering
plucking brightness from snowhair, creating daysong, and light
mrs. wolf struts with creative purpose in 3 inch heels and a bouffant
that might bring her to five feet - composed, filled with verve, her generative power
that sparked world history
she gave me Byzantium, ancient history,
and the wakefulness that births poems
the mountains swoop up light in long tree cloaks
hiding the glowing coals of day in boulder dens
so that marmot and pica and elk and human
can remember their home the stars the earth
tangy, bitter, cold
every poem since a pang
a wake up call
Visiting Rocky Mountain National Park
16 October 2010
rev. 21 October 2010
we'd find her in the oddest places:
back of the toolshed weeping unconsolably
or shuffling into the bedroom at two a.m.
disoriented, half asleep,
breath vapor fogging the cold blue windows.
"Tante Martha," I pleaded, "tell me what's wrong."
"It's not how they advertised it.
It's all overrated."
"What is?" I asked. "What?"
"Death, you dummy.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
the soft light of morning through the steam of my tea
or how whirling flings of a hundred starlings
undulate as one being, lifting from a sugar maple
flashing a dark breaker of wings against autumn's crimson,
both particle and wave.
looking backwards it is comical and horrifying
how it always began with me then
usually the middle and the end as well.
in particular there was that shout of a poem
four long columns on purple paper
asserting in the first line 'i am an amazon!'
like a raucous caricature of what i hoped to become
which i could not yet embody with quiet elegance.
i proudly photocopied that piece
and stomped around town taping it up anonymously
hoping to pique the curiosity of the world,
quite oblivious to the wind dried salt on her seaswim hair
or how the ocean crashing
was as loud as anything on the street
if you listened with the right frequency.
embarrassment eases into relief
that i have grown more into the fabric of things,
am on the inside looking into, pointing out
rather than coaxing eyes to look my way.
now it is all about
the bold silver of jupiter playing consort to the moon
or how the glinting red efts come sinuous walking
suddenly everywhere after the rains come.
i can just say thank you to that 20 year old self
for shaking the snow globe reeling
so that it could all come gently to a blanketing rest
and pile up to insulate the house of me.
so that now i can crunch out in the full moon winter
crying out in wonder
at the sparkling white bed of mystery
laid out for our angel wings.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
slowly the black of your room
begins to take shape...
the curve of a curtain,
the slant of that lamp,
soft edge of your bed.
I wait, and watch, and wait,
as my midnight eyes adjust,
reluctant to rush to your side.
It's too soon for me to know
your apartment in the dark.
Then you give a start,
rolling over with a charming murmur.
"A glass of water," I explain,
though I know you're not awake.
Spilled drink, skinned shins,
broken bric-a-brac —
there's little to be gained from
stumbling about in the dark.
Yet isn't that what we've been doing?
We hold tight to one another in the night,
hand to hip, nose to nape,
knee tucked neatly inside knee.
But what do you really know of me,
a mystery perhaps as dangerous
as I appear, looming
in this Victorian doorway.
Yet it's you, tiny you,
that I see as a threat,
a sighing silhouette guilty
of inexplicable crime:
trust, unearned, falls asleep
on my chest week after week.
My clothes, my keys,
I could just leave...
yet there you sleep and dream and breathe
with me upon your threshold.
I wait, and watch, and wait.
And at last, yes, I step
carefully, consciously, into your room,
unsure of my footing, unsure of the way,
but continuing to seek our equilibrium.
Our days grow shorter, my dear,
the year grows dark —
will you meet me completely
in autumn and still
retain the faint outline of yourself?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
you lie on the couch and mumble
that the tree’s leaning to the left
as we jam it in the stand.
until he steps back and informs us of this fact
as if you’d never said a word.
leaving melting footprints on the rug.
and also abandons the scene.
the euphemism, immediately.
You should never have been discharged without a plan.
and let you direct the routine.
while storms swept through like grim adolescent moods,
sleet, hail, snow, rain, and random days of clarity.
Now you sit there, watch movies, and wheeze.
although I put no stock in Christ.
screaming of hell and slavery,
swinging wildly at nurses and orderlies…
with its blinking red and white lights.
and you know I don’t mean the tree.
Dad grunting as he shovels snow.
and it’s kind of hard to surrender to the weather.”
where reindeer graze on a neighbor’s lawn.
so I darken the room and doubtfully listen to you breathe.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
This week, find something you wrote before.
"Find" could mean digging something out of storage, taking something off the bookshelf, or calling a relative to see if they can send it to you.
"Something" could mean a page from an old notebook, a poem you published, part of a letter -- but certainly a sample of creative writing and not, say, an old shopping list.
"Before" could mean a week ago, years past, or circa 1979.
Use that piece of writing as the basis for a new poem. There are many ways to go with this. You could quote yourself whole-cloth and then write "part two." You might interweave old lines with new ones. You might refer to the old writing without quoting it. You could take the seed of the idea for the old piece and use it to grow something brand new without ever looking back. You might write about the self who wrote the past sample....
Knowing us, the new poems are going to be ... beyond words...
Childhood photos are recreated by the adults those children became.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
is taking place — evidenced by nothing
but bounce. Under a star,
propitious or not, a world is whelped.
not realizing the dog has run off.
100 times smaller than the smallest
of my thinning hairs. Dust so small
they believed it wouldn’t bounce.
strategizing? Should I be concerned?
above the lawn chairs in our back yard.
about the stories in your head.
what’s going on in there…
I too discover I'm spinning,
out of control.
turns three times, curls up.
courtesy of NASA/Caltech.)
they’re shy and hide themselves.
let alone the moon, other galaxies
or wifi or my carburetor. The sky is alive,
yet we keep searching it for signs of life.
No reply, except the sun
shining through the ginkgo tree.
the window that lives
in the flesh and
pulse of my
that opens out
only after condensing
and tightening around the
pure narrow stream of expansive
isness carrying the touch that is awake
to itself beyond any frequency of identity
that can change or contort the very aliveness
that is that simply is that is that is that simply is
so tight that only that which is empty full empty
moves through a kind of feed zone where the
cognitive semblance of what is perceived
has only the breath of the breath as a
ride to its own ecstatic turning in
to itself and back again all in
the very same moment
as the torus itself,
the inner and
arching out concaving in
the delight of movement as itself
no other not needing any identity but
this augmentation of harmonic dissonance
freedom pure freedom clear of intention clear
choiceless such as beauty itself rises from and cries
this one this all open out condense in penetrate emerge
such that blooming dying birthing arriving surrenders
and tempers the form through this window into itself
sourcing itself feeding itself through and through
as through and through attenuating its very
nature back into itself as the essence
that it will once again arise from
returning to itself returning
as both the rising and
the falling tastes
the measure of
the rise and
rises against the
fall of spread open
wings, wings which taper
as they lift touching air to space
space to air to alight only to fall again
to the ground of beingness, this ground here
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Sunday, October 10, 2010
When you arrive at the tavern,
you breathe, first, on the window,
draw a wet spiral toward the keeper inside
You have wandered
for years,toward this beaded light,
pulling the thread from edge to center
whistling along the periphery,
But here it is,
pulling you from the aching and brilliant day
to this even greater night.
If you follow that call
to the dimly lit threshold,
you’ll know you’ve arrived
by the catch in your throat
as you stand,
teetering on the liminal
wood beneath your soles,
are you welcome? You know, peering in,
that you will sweep this cabin empty
if it is your nature
and even still, yes, Welcome
the moment you stepped
from the great prairie,
to the infinite
with this one word,
resting on its carpetbag,
drawing its name in the sand
of creation, shed rabbit fur, old eyelashes
the dried salt from tears shed over 10s of 1000s of years
all swirls up
as dust devils in small desert tornadoes
slithers by as low sand in the wind along the ocean walkers
even this much duff:
imagine whole galaxies of cohering bits of
stuff, possibility realms in microfloating stubble
a realm of ten thousand-million dust streams in sunlight,
the great recycling machines of fluff
turning turbulence, liminal matter, and the forgotten
into star shine from the dark cores of creation.
stir me, furnace of stars, see through my dense and transparent center.
generate something that shines in the night of me
opalescent, generative, possible.
Friday, October 8, 2010
and broil the galaxy with all its brightness
as all the seas of earth evaporate.
Man comes onto the stage a tad too late,
about the time the sun hits midlife crisis
and flares out wild into its final state.
No time to take back Eden - it's too late.
Five billion years at most is all earth's life is.
Too soon its lovely seas evaporate.
So say the experts who foresee our fate
and with their best predictions slice and dice us
as Sol prepares to flare its final state.
It's best, I think, to snuggle and create
and love like mad beneath the waving cypress
before the seas of earth evaporate.
I live in hope of heaven's bliss - but wait -
when we've been there six billion years - oh gracious!
Forced to watch the good sun's flaring fate
and all the seas of earth evaporate!
"Ghost Clouds of the Milky Way Incubating Stars"
It's an article about how much larger (and potentially faster) the particles surrounding new dark cores of stars are, and the phenomenon they call starshine which happens when this cosmic dust surrounds the dark core. They thought the light would shine right through very small particles, but the particles must be larger than they thought.
"'Dark clouds in our Milky Way galaxy, far from Earth, are huge places where new stars are born. But they are shy and hide themselves in a shroud of dust so that we cannot see what happens inside,' said Laurent Pagani of the Observatoire de Paris and the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, both in France. 'We have found a new way to peer into them. They are like ghosts because we see them but we also see through them.'"
"Pagani and his team first observed one case of the coreshine phenomenon in 2009. They were surprised to see that starlight was scattering off a dark core in the form of infrared light that Spitzer could see. They had thought the grains of dust making up the core were too small to deflect the starlight; instead, they expected the sunlight would travel straight through. Their finding told them that the dust grains were bigger than previously thought -- about 1 micron instead of 0.1 micron (a typical human hair is about 100 microns)."
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I’d never known a more trustworthy man.
Sam lived above his aging mom and dad
In an attic room he’d shaped with his own hands.
His room was spare – a kind of hermitage
With creaking varnished floorboards laid with care,
A bed, a desk, a large Greek lexicon
So he could study scriptures after dark
After tucking both his parents in.
At 45 he’d never asked for more.
And laid out in the middle of the floor:
A giant pane of inch-thick window glass
Through which he viewed the living room below,
The fading sofa, TV, easy chairs,
Where his parents sometimes spent all night.
“This way I can make sure they haven’t fallen.
As for the glass, I ordered it last year
For a contractor who never picked it up.
It took six men to haul it up the stairs
and lay it in this custom frame I cut.
It does the trick. I spied Pop fallen once
and Mom too weak to help him back to bed.
There’s no way I could let them live alone
or in some wretched convalescent shed.”
We sat in silence. The long room smelled of pine.
I asked him if the glass was safe enough.
He broke into his first grin of the night.
“Watch this,” he said, and switched the room lamp off.
The large glass seemed to vanish in the dark.
Where it had rested now gaped a great hole.
I suddenly felt dizzy looking down
Into the glowing room twelve feet below
And just as I drew back, Sam took a leap
High above the hole with a yelp.
I cried for him to stop, but then – too late –
All six-foot-three of him flew through the dark,
A silhouetted shape of outstretched limbs
Heading straight for sure catastrophe.
But then he landed on what seemed thin air
That seemed to give a bit, but held him firm.
My mind knew what had caught him. Nonetheless,
he stood there flaunting the miraculous,
like Christ atop the waves of Galilee
as Peter gaped in incredulity.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
ness the multiplanar web floss of autumn's spidering harvest.
Spiders come out in autumn to harvest the dreams of the year
and its fruiting (in flight).
Light so harsh, sideway sun,
all I can see are leaves, crimson clusters of yew berries,
and webs and floss:
One web, a large dial, a stylus to another timespace continuum
only eight strands on the edge and a donut hole of apple tree greenery possibility beyond, aslant from me. Closer in a large geometry radiates, rainbow flickering in the slight breeze. Some of the webs I can only see because I spy the spider in the middle,
a spot of brown seeming to hang in space, to fly. Wait, webs work because they are barely visible, because something can try to fly through. They are mesh but also air. [The air of the web is its most functional component.] It's ironic to notice and glory in their beauty when they are momentarily lit. Their true purpose is a darker one, more kin to shadow and flicker. They function in twilight best if also best praised in sun.
As in Abrams' Balinese webs, they must be viewed with soft eyes, seen whole,
the myriad of them a metapattern of shining, radiant rainbow spangle, taut lines to sundry circles, Nets cast to flight. A maker's symphony of complex weavery. A multiplanar dream. A galaxy.
Suddenly the wind brings another into view and I see the graceful legs weaving out from spineret's fine floss, in the moment of making. Is the air to floss ratio the same as in outer space, the space between atoms/electrons/matter and matter? The space between electrons in an atom, is it that wide? Like the web of outer and inner space?
How do they decide where to attach and swing, silk fluming,
to build their webs? They like the edges of things, how to connect something to something else.
Here I am, half way through the semester, fifth day of tenth month - so 5 of 10 in more ways than one...
Here I am, perched on the edge of the year, insight slanting in,
hovering on my discus of connections, between the edges of things, half- air, swayable, fragile, a momentary artwork praising coherence,
functioning in twilight but artworthy in moments of sunspangle.
Placed at the center of my thinking, furiously weaving.
Or just waiting, surfing air and an ocean of flying things,
waiting for the next great thing.
ancestors, lovers, querulous neighbors,
teachers and bosses, boorish civil servants,
that kid from third grade…
a host of spirits unable to rest.
Murmuring, they wait for their turn
in my mind. Perhaps they carry grievances
of their own, but this is not why they’ve come.
I keep them on call to relive my petty complaints.
They don’t rap at the glass or scratch at the screen.
They don’t stagger, bleeding or moaning,
up my street like drive-in ghouls.
They dress neatly, queue patiently,
very much alive to me,
no older than our last encounter.
Astonishing, how I can adorn
the fecund plum tree outside my bedroom
with resentments. It takes focus and devotion
to burnish the delicate ornaments of my anger
and string them so carefully in the limbs.
Even better, the tiny ringing that they make,
swinging in the wind as the leaves yellow
like aging affidavits in some bitter archive.
A tree would let them simply blow away
but I do not forget.
They’ve lined up at my window tonight,
no matter that it’s three floors up.
I have time for each of them. I cue
their agitation and we repeat our scenes,
hurling invective again and again
so that someday — maybe someday —
I may reinterpret these lines.
I treasure my invisible guests,
cherish their argumentative gifts,
make a fetish of my pain.
I gladly open my own wounds to the night.
Because I’ve never been good at saying goodbye.
Monday, October 4, 2010
means there are spiders (and trees), feral cats
mean feral-cat food thrives beneath our tread.
But they're asleep now—or maybe got caught.
Through the conference-room window—from inside—
I see a small bird with black back and white
belly whack the dragonfly in its beak
against the rail—once, twice, thrice—then it eats—
gone—and flits from view faster than a spark.
After the meeting, I check the bird guide
we keep in the creative lounge we call
"the hatchery," where, by bay views, we come
up with ways for our clients to attract
money from people through multiprong cam-
paigns. We're some brains behind AB&C.
All these entities of mind, mouth and limb.
Once, out to lunch, I saw jellyfish swim.