¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ..edited, compiled, prelimanarily perused, ¿¿¿ felt up, jostled and spell checked by, Homer The Brave Issue Number 6! "I am not a number, I am a free 'zine!" ----------------------- When WAS the last time you just took a big long dump and wondered what it was that was REALLY coming out? This happens to me all the time. I'm very curious. If I am what I eat, then I'm really glad, because I don't want to be what my colon hath rejected! Anyway, I bring this up as a reminder that there is a lot of good nutritious stuff out there for your reading pleasure, and that you shouldn't just automatically void whatever you don't like. Sit in your own exremeditation chamber and contemplate the very smelliness of it all. If it was horrid and bad and nasty and just plain dumb, maybe you just didn't understand it. Mindfulness, kiddies. Why did you eat it in the first place if you knew damn well your body would toss it into the ceramic throne? You had to taste it! You had to feel it in your mouth, sweet, tangy, crunchy, soft... You had to smell it, odorous and toxic and aromatic. And you had to see it, too! Laid out with care on its platter or presented in a cardboard box after you paid for it at the drive-thru, it enticed you! YOU HAD TO KNOW! And even if you found out and when you found out it was because you were sitting on the American Standard Recycling Bin, you knew the poetic moment. All your senses had not only conspired against you, but shown you the beauty of their secret plan. The hope, of course, is that you'll consume this 'zine and shit nothing. Anyway, anyway... After long last, and much procrastinating and much hemming and hawing and much waiting for the SoulFAQ people to send in their answers to the questions, here it is! Sleek, trim, wonderful. 1/3 less fat than others of its kind. Full satisfaction or your money back. We love you. And we want you to call our little Home Away From But Not Really Because You Call It From Home Home, Howl! BBS (713) 862-1415. KAWL 2-DAY! If you'd like to submit work for subsequent issues of Tamer Shrew, KAWL S00NIR!!! :-) ----------------------- ALL WORK PRESENTED REMAINS THE PROPERTY OF THE ORIGINAL AUTHORS! Don't be stealin' it, ok? ----------------------- Rant #2 --maeve the magnificent You want me to chop off your penis. You want me to take Elena Bobbit into me a raped beaten demon of vengeance into MY memory severing my thoughts. You want me, possesed to take the bloody kitchen knife and castrate your sexuality. You want me to forget my mothers: Margaret, Anne, Sylvia, Adrienne their stories, their poems, pens, mouths, their truth. You'd like me to forget to speak to know only the knife cut you with it so you can cut out my tongue, my womb, my heart, my brain. An unskilled abortionist, cut it all out. You want to blame me like you blamed my (your) mothers aunts, sisters, cousins for your need to peek and flash put pretty eye-coated, red-cheeked long-lashed, swollen butt, ballon-boobed dolls on the wall. I threaten your sexuality. The one you say you've owned by putting us there How can you own something you never had? Your sexuality is past due, repo'ed, man. What? Do you think I've come to collect ? or any of us? With our breasts salted up, our vacuumed thighs, we can't even pay our perfect woman debts not from your empty account vaulted beneath your fat flesh. Nothing but loneliness locked up beneath your photographer's eye. Hell, you sold your penis before I learned to speak- to your mama maybe? ----------------------- lemon knife and quine collective hiccup in vocation --fortunate hazel if you cannot, let the forces script it. symbolic behavior is hard to avoid, in dreams and in streams of life-blood, freeway, slow day on the couch, girlfriend. if you have not, let the (f)ishes (w)ish for it. shoes are walking tools, truth is, action is a tool for use, storyboard, if someone else is watching you, all symbolic action, dream to dream, between, life, energy mass and happy bank transactions, life! energy passed up(out) and acted out(up) in words! if someone else is watching it's all reference. symbolic patterns are credited to conscious, streams of water, altered, history or pathway, drain, coffee filter, the hiss of winter driving. if you will not, let the eyes drifting watch it. behavior is observe, resolve, and evolve, for life, transmitter and perfect pitch, in images. if you have will, free it and observe its flight, choice, refreshment or rest, best referenced to: life, equation for patterns of mass, acorn and IQ. self replicating and educating, idea and quine: "refers to itself in preceding quotation" refers to itself in preceding quotation, "refers to itself in proceeding generation/explanation" refers to itself in proceeding generation/explanation- spirit and idea, laughing and vacationing, people in books in people in books in ladle and look! ocean, soup, nutrient nourishing truth, "says god in spirit in symbol in vocation" says god in spirit in symbol in vocation. ----------------------- lovesgaspingplea --adonis nothing where are you? where are you now? i need you and you can't tell i want you and you don't know it i know you and you deny it why won't you listen why must you hide you tell me you lie i think your dishonest is the only untruth why afraid of me? what would i... could i... do? nothing not to you the spark in this darkness the promise of so much more you are the core of my universe and you won't know it can i help you trust me? will you... try? ----------------------- QUICK! YOU'RE GOD! --homer the brave I went around and I asked a bunch of people a whole bunch of people. I asked 'em QUICK! You're GOD! What do you do NEXT? And they answered. And I was fucking amazed. Nothing they'd say. nothing. I'd do nothing and let everyone pretend I was just human. I'd walk through the world like some cheap-ass human with no power, no divinity, no special beauty I'd just sit around and be smug, knowing that I knew something they didn't. A lot of people said this. They said it over and over. Nothing, they'd say. I interviewed everyone, everywhere, all over. everyone Nothing, they'd say. They'd do nothing. They said just that The vast, huge majority said just that. And the tiny, obscure minority when asked answered thusly: I'd make everyone happy. so I ask... happy? Happy. sez they. Sez they: I'd make everyone happy everyone peaceful everyone content. No more war, no more hatred no more borders or poverty no more politics, which is poverty of the spirit no more need for spirituality only the experience of spirit no more need for god just GOD which I guess would be me I'd make my divine ass irrelevant so I ask why happy? why not sad? why not vengeful? Happy. just cuz. sez they. And I can respect that. ----------------------- [untitled] --mycroft as i sit here, pulling the last shards of glass from my scalp, i come to a conclusion if i had died tonight, it wouldn't have mattered. at all. sure, a few people would have mourned, a couple might have never been the same, but there would be no great potential that was snuffed out. no great dreams would be ended. i used to live life with the thought, `if i am to die today, i want to be able to say that i have lived.' and i did, i really lived it up. nothing was more important to me than to suck the marrow from life and drink it's juices down. now, i almost have died, and i find my `life' wanting. if the sign i ran my mother's car into had been two feet closer to the freeway, my sleeping skull would have shattered along with the windshield. i would be dead and the world wouldn't be any the worse for wear [time, a few days later...] i'm walking around what appears to be a freedman's graveyard off of montrose/west dallas. people drive past me, oblivious to the utter state of decay of this graveyard. nobody cares enough to pull the weeds that completely cover some graves, or re-bury sarcophogi that rise to the surface. nobody remembers these people but me, now. i don't want to be like this, ever. if i die, people might say that i lived, but for what? it's no longer just good enough for me to just be knowledgeable and interesting, to have seen and done it all. i want the world to hurt if i am taken before my time. i've been slowly preparing for college the past few weeks, now i am attending classes and dealing with the day-to-day shit that surrounds them. before this accident, i was dreading the work and toil it would take to educate myself, now i'm ready for it. i am going to make something of myself which the world will want and need. i'm ready to grow up now. ----------------------- Question --echo In a cosmic ocean, whos to blame if noone knows from where they came Would we die of pity, Would we die of shame If we find sometimes we feel the same? In a timeless circle, who says whats real and whos to dictate what we feel Is destiny set Can we break the seal In the end our very soul to heal If I stole your freedom and stole your name Would it take away from thus you came Money, Honor, Power, Fame When facing death whoe'd be to blame? Is this life you're living a life of steel Do you believe that you turn the wheel Or do before your God to kneel Is your life Something you must steal? I'm hungry, thirsty didnt get What in the end I'll just call IT I've won and lost games called regret There must be something better yet I'm searching, winning living true In the end We'll all break through living lifetimes each second new Was I me or was I you? Put side by side compared to whose The right to life Is the right to choose Appear together thats Nature's news So why on surface things confuse? A life so precious Each secound bought As time moves onward life is caught Within a circle of spinning thought Will we ever learn the things we taught? Your life touched mine and mine yours too We still proclaim that friends are few Shout-and uphold opposing views Denying truth Long overdue Spending your life to reach some goal Never seeing past your role Life is more than a blackend hole Finding truth in our Shinning Soul. ----------------------- Beatnik Ego --xann (keith dennis) ATTENTION. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. attention. hey, misder keid dddennis....dis is yr ego callin....i know theres a spirit in there somewhere...im addressing you....when youse writin, its all you. but when youse reading, its all me. the name of the game. ham bone. slambone. any home dat can have you, any skirt you can have were all so lonely all so lovely, all so sullen. but, we all got dark and light, you know, like its all rolled into one, jack. jack. yeeeaaaahhhh. hes our man, dig, but if he cant do it... louis ferlinghetti, dig it. you gotta keep me alive...keep the beat, misder keid...im the junkie here, im the inspiration here...i give you conflict. i makes you want that girl...i makes you want that monney.. i knew this sagiterrean cat back in detroit, and says he one day, real wise-like, "why should i mind what you find when you look inside of me? "i think its kind yr not blind to who i want to be." and he goes on to say, like this here, like maybe an A minor & an E minor for gooood measure, jack: "turn and face the masses place on yr soul glasses end the fascination puke up fabrication find out who you are; well i wonder yeah i wonder who you really are." i was singing like this see, on my way to the madhatter one night south of the modor sidheee, and it hit me, what this sagiterrean cat said once, he said "hey, dig this shit, man, man alive, its like the spirit need only be correct its the ego dets weak you dig"isaididighegoeson"well, its like diss, man, you up on det staagge, jack, its all so strange, jack all them people, all 30 of em, clappin like nobodies biz at you, you, dis local cat who can tit for tat tell dem brats where its at, dig it, ahright...so you love it, now you aint so pure no mo, youse high on that applause, youse high on the women, dey all wanna fuck you cause you got a mind to go widdat cute lil 19 yr old assahyrs, right, and like, now you write for them, deys like you audience, diggit...it aint so pure anymore...what you writin for..." "thoughts are bullets in the flesh gun of man the dead unloaded we fear them! "we give them value in a worthless state cause someday were gonna be near them! "flesh hides monsters inside of us all ...although we try not to see them animals call out, and animals crawl out; ...when you have sex you will free them! and on and on i sang, on my way, with my guitar stashed securely away, to another date, another day w/o no tannnngible pay. all dem songs, cat. i haddall dem songs intact. tight. i get into it, hambone, i picked my hambones clean for dem people, and one year later, i see it, cats, i see it kittens, its all so clear, what im doin up here, i was lookin at the chixxx, man...i looked at udderstuff too...but de chixxx...i said to myself, i gotta mind, i gotta mind, i think about things, i think about things...yeah... "ANIMAL PASSION, ESCAPES MY LIPS (X) ANIMAL PASSION, IM ONNA TRIP (X) ANIMAL PASSION, ITS DRIVIN MY HIPS (X) animal passion, i wanna slip inside animal me animal you i see animal me inside animal, animal you animal me, animal you i see animal me inside aaanimal cannibal you" and on and on i sang. i sang that song in a dennys once, next to a girl that was as fucked in the head as any motherly replica ive ever chased. she went crazy. she squirmed in her seat. i realized i was onto something, something extraordinary. egotistical. evil when in the wrong hands. i had the wrong hands that night. i used the most truthful, bitterly truthful poem id ever heard, written by dat sageterrean cat, dat modor sidheee uncle wayne of mine, to put the hot seat on the girl. and it almost worked. good thing it didnt. dat was a lil rough, even for me.. why do we write? why are we up here? ok, lets have it out like this. we write cause something hurts, we write cause something feels good, we write because theres this nothingness intowhich something maybe nonordinary walks, or maybe something so normal, so real that its pure poetry, and we write about it. we can imagine it, and then write it, if we like, it can be fiction, you could write the book on anything true false or altogether something other than else. but then, why do we read? why am i, why are any one of us here...what the hell do we think were doing here, up at the top of these steps in dallas, deep ellum, city java cafe, and so on. who told us to do this? i sure as hell wasnt invited! these are the things i ask myself when i wake up in the morning. i just woke up. ill take a stab, which anyone here can remove and thrust back into me. i like pitchforking myself and others in the rear end, i like to shake things up, so, friends and neighbors, lovers, patriots...why are we doing this? sam modica asked himself something similar last week...his wife wondered why he went to read poetry here or whereever...he gave us all a pretty good answer. hes older than me, hes seen a lot more. what about YOU? ego? ego got the best of you? remember now, go back go back...it was like a big panaoramic photo of a serial killer...all the faces were dark except for the girlssss...you looked up from yr mouthpiece like so, in between the songs in the show, you looked at the girls....at the girls... n dat sag cat was right--some of em did, some of em did wanna fuck, you know it....deysey...dkid musshave a myeined...couldnt be after just one thing, my kittens in arms...no no no, that cat must want us all for our brains... ooooooh, didnt it feel so goood.... to get them compliments like you knew you would oooooh, aint it soooo nice..... even now...even then...even always, pickin yr hambone clean, boy, pickin yr hambone clean... im so proud i got a spirit behind me...so nice to be one up on all the other cats...i got invisible, invincible means of protection, support and so on and always so forth. oooooh, you goin places kid, that late night queen says write my biography, you big hunk of a witty man...yr reedeemer called you a very interesting poet, member dat, yeh! oooooh, its top of the hep heap for you, boy....just last week, yeah, all yr friends said you got soul all the people clapped, like old times, they clapped for you...clapping for you... oooooh, boy, look out world, sag cat says you need to put out a book, everyone else has, that old tom cat said he was in the prescence of a poet at t crash worship carnival just last week and ooooooooh, boy, the other day, across the way, dat young thing said to you, boy hey! "im gonna see you in an an tho lo gie of contem pora-ry america n p o e t r y some day." oooooooooooooooooooooooh mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmdont dat makeyoufeelso gooooood. now you go home on tuesday and you say, what can i write for the audience on wednesday? you write a confession...you expose the beatnik skirtchasing wineguzzling wordjunkie in you, and in us all. you chase skirt guzzle wine you live off text that makes you wanna start a revolution and then say youse a pilgrim well, keith dennis, this is yr beatnik ego callin, the one that needs to be the voice of the next wave, generation Y. and i say get off the high horse, lad...you aint nothin big....youse a writer, sure, you express yrself, sure...but that aint nothin yr housewife mother dont do when she decides to get creative, try variety, and buy a sara lee pie when shes furiously scribbling her grocery list all her children clapped at the choice she made. sara lee apple...mmmmm. congradulations on expressing yrself, mommy. the sweet taste of success, w/half the fat! ----------------------- dream, 6/3/94 --homer the brave I was with the other man, and we were on the beach, near the bungalow. There were trees planted there with a curious characteristic: One limb of each tree, when moved, would produce a sweet, high-pitched note. The sound was reminiscent of a flute, but more like a flute that was inside a tree. The trees themselves looked to be cypress or redwood, or some strange combination of the two, and they soared up towards the heavens. So we stood there on the beach for some time, moving the limbs of these trees. It took only a short time to understand the technique. Easy enough. We would move the limbs in contrary melodies, and see who could evoke the highest and lowest note from our trees. We smiled broadly at each other, held in a kind of childish bliss. Before long, we began to accompany the waves as they washed up on the sand. Slowly, in long phrases, and the moon was floating solemnly overhead. We gave up smiling for a sort of understood quiet, as though we had just had a long and meaningful discussion, he and I, and we were now digesting all that had been said. He spoke. "We should summon a tidal wave. Do you think we can?" I replied cautiously, "Do you think we have that sort of power? Do you think we could do such a thing? And should we?" "You talk too much," he said, a grin returning to his face. I continued to passively accompany the waves. He, however, would play louder, longer, with each rush of the tide, building and building. Our host came out of the bungalo and approached. She sat between the two trees, as if she knew what he were doing, and smiled approvingly. She looked at me, saying, "If its going to work, you'll have to join in." I thought for a moment, shrugged, and said, "What the hell." We harmonized, building louder and stronger. Our two trees began to create overtones that implied fundamental frequencies much, much deeper than either of us could hear or understand even. But we felt it. As we continued, we heard a deep, dark rumbling from the horizon. Had it really worked? Or was this thunder from a nearby storm? In came a huge wave, 25 feet high at least. It rushed towards us. Panic struck my brain and just as I was about to run away, I realized there was really nowhere I could go. Something inside me continued to play the tree. The wave gradually halted, towering over our heads. All was totally and completely silent; it stood there, a vast wall of water. I could see small fish swimming inside it. It seemed to be listening... to our music. ----------------------- The Wise-Man, The Dirt-Eater (How Victory Is Found In Filth-Reveling) --fortunate hazel i live in a lot of tossed rocks it's a house-cave, it smells like me in my hands are rabbit skins and what had been in those skins was dribbling down my chin I wiped my swollen red nose and screamed out "I win!" (an owl-shout) "I can! I can and I win!" i spit out bits of shit and within, little bits of spittle, i've bit bullets and scarred kettles i have great mettle and worth those great little bits of spittle though, say-spray that carries my message of messes and pellets away to other noses that's what i love on my lips, i like to taste the worthless dirt and spit it's in my nose, and who knows where it's been? owl-carried, all-worried and old, I don't care, I've been there, whatever it is that sicks up the spit up, I've been there and seen it- so shut up. I'm screaming what I've been dreaming, bits of lung, stringy bits from coughing fits, they come too, i'm giving you a real piece of my mind you can squeeze it and feel me you can smell me you can see what i see with your nose who knows? ya might like it. just don't try and fight it at all. I got the "40" solution, I'm a forty-hag I've got a rabbitskin bag full of filterless fags I don't care about my lungs, they can't be as black as the things i see flying in my house that ain't no mouse, miss, it's a bat you'll know the mice, they're the size of cats i name them all as i kill them off... You could get "40," maybe tomorrow I worked through the sorrow, raked my skin with it i drew blood and drew answers from it, in it now the wisdom of the ages is within my skin, read my scars, out here under the stars, dermal learning, red astrology and your future's there read it, when you're done, i'll hit you. earth-missed and scooped mist of spit: a worth-fist. I grew wrinkles and hair-grey for you, Worked up 24 years in 24 hours, life in a day, I like it this way, teeth are for the weak Who needs teeth? I've got some in my gums, I save 'em for special occasions, not to eat, But to spit at kids, bloody and yellow-weak. I'm an infinite "40," I could be you soon. I have a wall of disgust surround me, When I'm sicker and my nose is even bigger, I spit out shit and lick it thicker I will it to spin, spraying spit from within, Wrap it around me at night and stay warm, Lie on it in the sun, and feel warm even in cold wind, I've got my wall, i trust disgust initmately, And I wanna know, how thick is your skin, miss? All the little girls and boys have to hug me They want to hug some cotton-thing, some huggy-bear, But they have to hug me and I hug to scare, Mom don't know that I release teeth, or the age i wear Mom don't know that I don't care, she ain't "40" She don't know the first word of this world, but I do. Each of my grey hairs stands fer "I been there" And the ones on my chin, each stand fer "I win!" The young'ns run, and I scream out after 'um "I can! I can and I win!" And it's an owl-cry, a 40-yell. But that Mom's been told that I'm wise, So she sends her kids to break my disguise, my filth-wall, She's never tried at all, she's never been small Sends her kids where she won't tread, incredibly deadly lady She'll never get "40" either, kid or "40" She's neither, just a big tunnel of lies, Her kids are numbered fucks that fly, Come shooting shouting out of this tunnel of lies, She gots husbands that are numbered guys The ties that bind her life are lies, But Mom wants her kids to learn from ME, so it goes: I shout out "I can! I can and I win!" And it's an owl-cry, a 40-yell. Later I shout again, and kill some goats My "40" came early, your "40" could come, Everybody's got some, and some succomb to it I did I've been, and I got through it. Life is better than I ever knew it: If that only dreams were clean, i'll argue with you still: So give me a cheer for each "40th" year: "I've seen it!" "I've been there!" and "I don't care!" "I can! I can and I win!" said 40 by 40 by 40 again So I'm rolled up in my filth-rug, My spit is a drug, my hair is bugged, Silver hairs and silver fish mixed My gums are healed, my lungs are fixed So I dig a hole and sit in it Life is in it, and life within it... It's great, it's a dirt-eater's heaven It's paradise, black honey and bugs... Can't beat it, can't see it from where you are up there But don't worry, you needn't look far-fer Everyone, he or she, can fall "40" in a fast flash No matter how you try and shake it, Polish mud to try and fake it, trash queen, Crowned king of the underground... You'll live it, you won't care that you've been there, and you'll have won... so with that, I'm done. Lastly, nasty and laughingly, I screamed out my dream: "I could... I could, and I did!" And it was an owl-cry, a 40-yell. ----------------------- SoulFAQ --compiled by homer the brave soul n. 1. The animating and vital principle in human beings, credited with the faculties of thought, action, and emotion and often conceived as an immaterial entity. 2. The spiritual nature of human beings, regarded as immortal, separable from the body at death, and susceptible to happiness or misery in a future state. 3. The disembodied spirit of a dead human being; a shade. 4. Soul. Christian Science. God. 5. A human being. 6. The central or integral part; the vital core. 7. A person considered as the perfect embodiment of an intangible quality; a personification. 8. A person's emotional or moral nature. 9. A sense of ethnic pride among Black people and especially African-Americans, expressed in areas such as language, social customs, religion, and music. 10. A strong, deeply felt emotion conveyed by a speaker, a performer, or an artist. 11. Soul music. ---American Heritage Dictionary We're here to ask questions. At least, someone once said that we are. I'm inclined to believe that's true, since I spent a lot of time asking people some questions about their souls. Not that I was envious, mind you; I like my own soul quite a bit, even if I don't believe it actually exists. The idea here was to find out the opinions of a diverse group of people on the topic of the soul. Unfortunately, none of the Christians I sent e-mail to have yet responded, so I will have to proceed without their answers. I say this to let you know I'm not theologically biased... They just didn't answer. I've put the answers in random order so you can't tell who gave what answer.. I'm so sneaky! 'Soul' is: a) an eternal and essential part of one that will outlive one's body b) a segment of one's personality that allows one to sing the blues effectively c) a metaphor which humans use to somehow attempt to better understand themselves d) a pile of crap e) other (please explain: ____________) [bonus points if your answer is e] Sorry...I'll live without my bonus points and say: all and/or none of the above. E: The Soul is an amalgam of an individual's personality and supernatural characteristics. It is not always confined by the shape of the human body, and under many circumstances will survive it's destruction for an indefinite period. a and e. I veiw the soul as the eighth and ninth conciousness. Karma and Buddahood. An idea that allows us to pretend that we're not really going to die. Sorry I don't like any of these choices. My definition of soul is that which cannot be seen, smelled, felt, or experienced, but there are alot of people who are really interested in it! e - That word that proceeds Train in one of the longest running music variety shows on T.V. Everyone knows that the only reality is T.V. reality! e - I believe that, while 'a' is essentially true, that definition doesn't go far enough. Craftworkers say that when someone creates a 'work of art,' the creator puts some of himself into it. So it is - I believe - with people (and with nature, for that matter). I believe that what we think of as 'soul' or 'spirit' is that 'spark of divinity' which is connected to the Creator of All Things. And - being isolated, separated parts of the Divine - we are driven through our many lifetimes to seek to rejoin the Divine. What makes you think there are such things as soul(s)? Besides Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, Detroit Emeralds, the eternal spinning axis-eye, Jackie Wilson and Shugie Otis (sort of) ? Nothing. I appreciate the use of the word "soul" as poetic metaphor, but most of what I would mean by the word I would prefer to call ego. That way, I exchange a lot of metaphysical baggage for psychoanalytic baggage, which is not ideal, but is an overall improvement. My practice of magick; visionary experiences of various sorts. Intuition. I also find a scientific explanation of self-awareness and consciousness to be unconvincing and fragmented. Well, since I believe that you live over and over again, there has to be something that goes on to the next life. Therefore there has to be a soul. I dunno, really. Just a feeling, I guess. No, scratch that. The `feeling' is what tells me that my soul exists. Something animates and motivates us and - for lack of a better term - I believe that it is our "soul." There are too many documented cases of Near Death Experiences and reincarnation (see Stevenson, _20 Cases Strongly Suggestive of Reincarnation_ [I believe that's the title]) not to believe that there is something which is our consciousness and which leaves the body at death and - at least sometimes - enters into the body of a newborn child. How tangible must a soul be for it to exist? What an odd question. I recognize the existence of many intangible things. What do you mean by "tangible". Under normal circumstances, I'd imagine that it could only be intuited, not measured. As tangible as Buddahood. How tangible does one have to be? AS TANGIBLE AS A FUCKING MOUNTAIN! Souls don't fade in and out of existence like some bad sci-fi movie hologram. It was a human soul that spoke through Martin Luther King's lips when he told the world of his dreams. It was holding the pickaxe that felled the Berlin wall. The real question is whether or not the lump of flesh sitting on the other end of the computer is real, not the soul. It is said that upon death, the human body loses excactly one gram of weight. (Yet it seems heavier...the "dead weight" effect. Of course I can't prove this, so it may very well be bullshit.) It must be at least as tangleble as kite string. If you can't tie it in a knot, then what good is it. If you don't understand, just ask Charlie Brown. How tangible must electricity or gravitation be to exist? Is the humorous nature of the following typo mere coincidence: 'assoul'? Is the coincidental nature of the following typo mere humor: 'assoul'? IF this had come from anyone else, I would say that it was a coincidence, but coming from you...;-) I don't know. I'd rather contemplate my navel. Mostly. Uh, yeah. I have no idea what this question was because I messed up and erased part of it. Where is the soul located? It's around. It's especially around things which are round. It moves around. Sometimes mine is in my penis, sometimes it vainly seeks admission to other people's heads. Sometimes it casts loose entirely, and roves the planes of Aristotelian essence, or the infinite worlds of If, or Erewhon, Xanadu, Shangri-La, or the far Centaurus suns. Sometimes it strikes beyond the farthest limits of human thought, to lie gasping like a lungfish on a trackless alien beach, ten leagues beyond the wide world's end. Usually, though, it's about three inches behind my eyes, and doing nothing in particular. In the alaya consiousness. The soul is located in whatever part of the person that is involved in action. The soul is the action. The soul can reside the the engine of a race car, the wings of an airplane, or in the wires of a computer. A soul cannot sit behind a television set. Where do you keep yours? Either in a diamond in a bound chest in the larder of the palace of the Queen of the Sea, or in a shiny new dumpster in Weehawken, NJ. Mystical Judaism believes that the soul is contained in a minute and indestructable fragment of bone from the spine, which will act as a seed to regrow the human body on the day of ressurection. Where is the soul located? Right here. LONGITUDE 45 degrees, 24 minutes; LATITUDE 22 degrees, 4 minutes. Look for the big rock. fifteen steps to the north. X marks the spot. A cat is curled up on my lap. How can one find evidence of the soul's existence? Define it, and maybe you'll know where to look. It's not a problem for me. Take a 10" hairpin and insert it to it's full length into one's right eye. Repeat as necessary. ("Hey, it works!" ) Near Death Experiences, for one. Check for a pulse. Look around here, at this place. Is it just a BBS anymore? Would it still be the same if we all left and were replaced by random strangers using the same handles? It is this collection of souls that makes this place. Allow me to refer you to the "blues" section at your local record store. Given that there are many interpretations of the whys and wheretofores of the soul, how can I choose which one is correct? Try to find what systems of belief you are comfortable with have to say about such. Then compare them and see what they have in common. Listen to the teaching that makes the most sense. For this, I say that you must look to yourself and have luck. Everything I know, a little bird told me. I would try the Magic 8-ball. It is more accurate than flipping a coin, but not as good as the ouija board! Assume that all are correct and that all are incorrect. "None of Thee Above." How are 'souls' connected with 'angels?' Ethernet. Actually, I consider angels to be a lot less interesting idea. I believe that Nature Spirits are the genuis loci of the physical world; and Angels, Dragons and similar creatures are the genius loci of other worlds. Through a mistaken perception. With a rubber band?? Compare/contrast 'soul' with 'spirit'... Are they the same thing? No. Christianity is one of the very few religions that believe that we only possess a single soul. Though I have used "soul" thoughout this message, I generally say that a person's Spirit is composed of a host of Souls, each being a facet of that person's personality or potential facet. Not at all the same thing. The soul is the part of you that never dies, but which carrys on from life to life while the spirit is the part of you that keeps you sane. Spirit is more of an emotional trip while the soul is more real. No. Soul is something that you have if you are cool, spirit is something you drink when you WANT to be cool I believe so. I also believe that what the Japanese call 'kame' are also spirits. In fact, you might say that a spirit is a disincarnate soul Add anything else you might have to say about souls. What important questions have been omitted? What are the answers to those questions? What of those people, and there are millions of them, who seem to have less personality and "soul" than the average Lhasa Apso? I think that is so because, paradoxical as it may sound, they offer less to the anthropomorphizing sentiment of the observer. The same sentiment which readily ascribes sentience to cetaceans, trees, imaginary entities, and even inanimate objects, seems baffled by some of our fellow men. I think that people choose, and learn, to literally project a "nobody here" impression. Also, I believe that souls are made, not born. Everyone who is content with ignorance, I believe, lives and exists "less" than they might otherwise. Soles are good on shoes, they help keep your feet off the ground. One question I think you left out was can a white man have soul, and the answer is yes, but only if he dyes his soul black! "All God's chilluns have Soul, but only a few can sing the blues." I would like to thank the following folks for replying: At Howl! BBS (713) 862-1415 Echo and Mycroft At Ikonoclast BBS (713) 721-1538 Palinurus and The Mighty Sexgod! At The Familiar Spirit BBS (201) 837-5914 Clifford Low and Ken Pastore ----------------------- shallow drowned --adonis nothing so there it is it is all like this and in the end it doesn't matter broken open clouds rain falls down we are shallow drowned in deep blue water far black sky the voices asking why try to move now everything is comfortable everything is senseless dust breathe the hate arrive too late strapped down opened wide robbed of the whole the burning coal cooled by words soothed by the touch breath of a girl for all the world like a madman a sadman visitations not few see the world with the sandman view is it true what is said was it red and blue and black take it back stop it all melt into the room and follow slowly knowing growing wide eyed little girl twirl twisting ends bends turns in circles fall to the ground found it is softer there where the waiting lies denies that it ever was because it is hard to justify give a reason why try the shadowlands woman hands grasping heart pull strings dance puppet boy precious thing sprout wings fly join the gril in the sky swallow water it grows nigh the next life no strife bundle up fellings kneeling in tall grass moon will guide hide keeping from the sun run fast full mast ship sails oceans wide seven not so many as eleven magic numbers that exist making with the luna face a tryst trust not and fear not spill blood and drink do not think cut charred made hard angels hair girl breath soft warm death a marker for places once been do not drown swallow this blue and breath... ----------------------- Boxcar-pawns take good words for granted --sentry The Good Word rises and falls with faces and discarded jerseys in back-alleys and bridges Despicable rise and fall and piles of zines in the back room with honey and feathers Why, in the streets without homes and smiling we walk past, the wounded silently stride past us, wounded. Who, across the street in silence smokes, red-orange without a face, pools of rainwater extinguish traces Shattering with rise and fall and forgiven failings, red-orange, without a face. broken-down pink Volkswagons flailing in high seas. You shatter with it. glass and playing cards in high winds- their screaming is plain and muted. ----------------------- so-so-so --fortunate hazel the bottles are like bags in the attic, thick bags like old books are thick, sticky with dust, held together by a long line of time, time-twine, and that you disturb this, you time-unravel travelling, those bags in the attic are full of letters, still as words in print except when read hints of things, things (living) in the past that didn't last, love letters. long lost love letters, that would better be burned to heat up some butter, so your toast will taste better, rather than reading them until your heart is bitter, heat that butter up instead of bringing up that old cracked loving cup, held up in a toast that said forever but soured away muttering lust, lust too much lust but not enough love, and there it was. how many bottles count up this way, up into a wall? an apartment attic, one long tragic second story, we all had pasts that were plaster in the wall, all of us are a part of it, memory-made thickest bricks, our tricks came back a-tricked us, slipped between us during the fuss and the rush of the days gone by, and today, you ding-a-ling, brings us up to snuff. i've written things that i haven't lived, it's the only nobility that i can afford, fiction here the soil is barren and the oiled bearings are failing, binding and flaking with rust, red rust, bad blood from a dying dream machine, dirty so dirty. ----------------------- The Year 2000 --maeve the magnificent The year 2000 is coming... STOP. here. stop the future. stop now. Stop the past. Every month 1500 women die, slain by men they know. stop. When I was fifteen I wore black I liked the sex pistols and wrote bad poetry. They said I was rebllious. I was. They said i was depressed I have been. They said I'dl get over it. Not yet. If I was fifteen today, my parents might put me in a mental facility. They might send me to a psychiatrist who might medicate me Zoloft Ridillin or something new and better Something to make me active less depressed help me focus smile when I go to my boring job boring school something to help me forget my troubles or at least accept them. Stop the future. middle class white men gather together perform rituals stolen from Native Americans they learn to bond have their feelings, be in touch with their rage to take young men under their wings and prepare for manhood. They work for oil companies mining companies cattle markets the rapists of Native soil They pay $200 a plate to sponsor Robert Bly to keep their council afloat They quote Camille Paglia "Feminists are whining bitches" Stop the Past. Revolutionary Communists hand me a pamphlet, this was before protesting at the 92 Rebulican National convention It told me how to keep silent should I be arrested To keep only my name fresh on my lips It reads like the pamphlet the AF gave me before deployment should I get caught by the enemy Airman Johnson 457-13-2266 USAF Stop. stop. STOP. I tell my sister the lawyers wife it's her life i fear for should the riots come the revolution start I am proletariat i say Proud and ashamed of my whiteness the privelage we shared growing up It's you, I say who will be taken into the street and shot. i know this is true. like i know if I'm not, I'll be sent away locked up or killed when the federal police sanctioned by Congress (100,000 in the next year) storm my home... or my white womans nightmare My house broken into by angry black men raped tortured "Stupid white bitch" Carefully programmed before I could say the word, "rebellion" or 'oppression' Stop the future, No drug can fix us Stop the past, half remembered rites and prayers, stolen cannot fix this Stop war cannot stop rebellion cannot stop hate cannot stop God cannot stop Christ cannot stop The year 2000 is coming Stop.