Passed. A+
<grin>
Joe - V#8013 - '86 VN750 - joe @ yunx .com
Northern, NJ
Ride a Motorcycle? Ask me about "The Ride"
http://www.youthelate.com/the_ride.htm
Born once - Die twice. Born twice - Die only once. Your choice...
Have unwanted music CDs or DVDs of any type? I can use them for our
charity. eMail me privately for details. Donation receipts available.
"Matthew" <[email protected]> wrote in message
news:[email protected]...
> Because I keep getting rejected from my ISP.
>
>
On 2 Dec 2004 08:33:40 -0800, [email protected] <[email protected]> wrote:
> testing here too... mine don't seem to be going in.
FFS, people. alt.test exists for this, and has autoresponders, even.
It is possible that they are having problems with this specific group only
and thus the test here would be somewhat more legit.
Joe - V#8013 - '86 VN750 - joe @ yunx .com
Northern, NJ
Ride a Motorcycle? Ask me about "The Ride"
http://www.youthelate.com/the_ride.htm
Born once - Die twice. Born twice - Die only once. Your choice...
Have unwanted music CDs or DVDs of any type? I can use them for our
charity. eMail me privately for details. Donation receipts available.
"Dave Hinz" <[email protected]> wrote in message
news:[email protected]...
> On 2 Dec 2004 08:33:40 -0800, [email protected]
<[email protected]> wrote:
> > testing here too... mine don't seem to be going in.
>
> FFS, people. alt.test exists for this, and has autoresponders, even.
>
On Thu, 2 Dec 2004 21:53:53 -0500, Joe <[email protected]> wrote:
> It is possible that they are having problems with this specific group only
> and thus the test here would be somewhat more legit.
No, that's not how Usenet works. All of the messages go into the same
location, and the Newsgroups: header differentiates them at display time.
The only exception to this is for moderated groups.
Dave Hinz
(administering Usenet newsservers off and on since 1992)
RE OT
True. Good idea.
Joe - V#8013 - '86 VN750 - joe @ yunx .com
Northern, NJ
Ride a Motorcycle? Ask me about "The Ride"
http://www.youthelate.com/the_ride.htm
Born once - Die twice. Born twice - Die only once. Your choice...
Have unwanted music CDs or DVDs of any type? I can use them for our
charity. eMail me privately for details. Donation receipts available.
> No, that's not how Usenet works. All of the messages go into the same
> location, and the Newsgroups: header differentiates them at display time.
> The only exception to this is for moderated groups.
It may be his interface to the group. i.e Google or some other interfaces
may loose a post here and there IMHO.
> (administering Usenet newsservers off and on since 1992)
Joe
On the net before there was a net on and off starting around 1981. Anyone
remember 300 or even 110 BAUD? Most people don't know what "BAUD" is. :):)
<grin>
On Sat, 4 Dec 2004 00:14:12 -0500, Joe <[email protected]> wrote:
>> No, that's not how Usenet works. All of the messages go into the same
>> location, and the Newsgroups: header differentiates them at display time.
>> The only exception to this is for moderated groups.
>
> It may be his interface to the group. i.e Google or some other interfaces
> may loose a post here and there IMHO.
Then he could post a real message, in the off chance that someone has
invented a usenet interface that works unlike every other one.
>> (administering Usenet newsservers off and on since 1992)
>
> On the net before there was a net on and off starting around 1981. Anyone
> remember 300 or even 110 BAUD? Most people don't know what "BAUD" is. :):)
Yuppers. There's another thread going on right now with the
"We used to bang rocks together to get our zeros and ones" thing.
Dave
On Sat, 04 Dec 2004 23:28:19 GMT, mac davis <[email protected]> wrote:
>>
> yeah... with my $5,500 apple II... *groan*
Keep it long enough, and it may get back up there (think eBay)
On Wed, 1 Dec 2004 22:04:24 -0600, "Matthew"
<[email protected]> wrote:
>Because I keep getting rejected from my ISP.
>
feed on rejection, it will make you stronger...
On Thu, 2 Dec 2004 21:53:53 -0500, "Joe"
<[email protected]> wrote:
>It is possible that they are having problems with this specific group only
>and thus the test here would be somewhat more legit.
>
>Joe - V#8013 - '86 VN750 - joe @ yunx .com
>Northern, NJ
>Ride a Motorcycle? Ask me about "The Ride"
>http://www.youthelate.com/the_ride.htm
>
>Born once - Die twice. Born twice - Die only once. Your choice...
>
>Have unwanted music CDs or DVDs of any type? I can use them for our
>charity. eMail me privately for details. Donation receipts available.
>
>
>"Dave Hinz" <[email protected]> wrote in message
>news:[email protected]...
>> On 2 Dec 2004 08:33:40 -0800, [email protected]
><[email protected]> wrote:
>> > testing here too... mine don't seem to be going in.
>>
>> FFS, people. alt.test exists for this, and has autoresponders, even.
>>
>
I don't have a problem with test posts...
gives me a chance to do what I do best.. be a smart ass..
However, if it bothers people, then perhaps the tests should have OT:
as the beginning of the heading?
On Wed, 1 Dec 2004 22:04:24 -0600, "Matthew"
<[email protected]> wrote:
>Because I keep getting rejected from my ISP.
>
Perhaps you should send it a nice card and a box of chocolates...
Aut inveniam viam aut faciam
Good old Howl by Allen Ginsberg.
I used to take poetry, speech and oral interpertation classes in college.
Primarily because I was good at and the chicks were impressed by that sort
of thing. I performed Howl on numerous occaisions. And I did a much more
civilized version than Mr Ginsberg did. He used to destroy microphones and
recording equipment with his screaming delivery.
People get real uncomfortable with the intense delivery and imagery. Some
folks actually had to walk out on it because they couldn't handle it. I
always got A's for it. I am not sure it was because I was good or just
fearless.
"Tom Watson" <[email protected]> wrote in message
news:[email protected]...
> poetry anthology | writings | weed's home page
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------
------
>
>
> Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)
>
>
> Howl
>
> For Carl Solomon
>
> I
>
> I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
> hysterical naked,
>
> dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an
> angry fix,
>
> angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to
> the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
>
> who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
> supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
> cities contemplating jazz,
>
> who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan
> angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
>
> who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating
> Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
>
> who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene
> odes on the windows of the skull,
>
> who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in
> wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
>
> who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a
> belt of marijuana for New York,
>
> who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley,
> death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
>
> with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and
> endless balls,
>
> incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the
> mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the
> motionless world of Time between,
>
> Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine
> drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride
> neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the
> roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light
> of mind,
>
> who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to
> holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children
> brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain
> all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
>
> who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and
> sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening
> to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
>
> who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to
> Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
>
> a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the
> stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the
> moon
>
> yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and
> anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and
> wars,
>
> whose intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights
> with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
>
> who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous
> picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
>
> suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of
> China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
>
> who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard
> wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
>
> who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow
> toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
>
> who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop
> kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in
> Kansas,
>
> who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian
> angels who were visionary indian angels,
>
> who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural
> ecstasy,
>
> who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse
> of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
>
> who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or
> soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
> and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
>
> who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind
> but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered
> in fireplace Chicago,
>
> who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and
> shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out
> incomprehensible leaflets,
>
> who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic
> tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets
> in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos
> wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry
> also wailed,
>
> who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before
> the machinery of other skeletons,
>
> who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars
> for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and
> intoxication,
>
> who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof
> waving genitals and manuscripts,
>
> who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and
> screamed with joy,
>
> who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses
> of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
>
> who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass
> of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
> whomever come who may,
>
> who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind
> a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to
> pierce them with a sword,
>
> who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed
> shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of
> the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass
> and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
>
> who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and
> continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the
> wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of
> consciousness,
>
> who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset,
> and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the
> snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the
> lake,
>
> who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars,
> N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy to
> the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner
> backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
> gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings &
> especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys
> too,
>
> who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a
> sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover
> with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams &
> stumbled to unemployment offices,
>
> who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank
> docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat
> and opium,
>
> who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the
> Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads
> shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
>
> who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the
> muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,
>
> who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of
> onions and bad music,
>
> who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose
> up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth
> floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
> by orange crates of theology,
>
> who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations
> which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
>
> who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas
> dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
>
> who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
>
> who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an
> Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day
> for the next decade,
>
> who cut their wrists three times successfully unsuccessfully, gave up
> and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were
> growing old and cried,
>
> who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison
> Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron
> regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of
> advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were
> run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
>
> who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked
> away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup
> alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
>
> who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway
> window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all
> over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
> phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished
> the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in
> their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
>
> who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's
> hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,
>
> who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision
> or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
>
> who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver &
> waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver
> and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome
> for her heroes,
>
> who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each
> other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated
> its hair for a second,
>
> who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible
> criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts
> who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
>
> who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender
> Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive
> or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
>
> who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left
> with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
>
> who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently
> presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the
> shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous
> lobotomy,
>
> and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol
> electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong &
> amnesia,
>
> who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table,
> resting briefly in catatonia,
>
> returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears
> and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns
> of the East,
>
> Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering
> with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight
> solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare,
> bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
>
> with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of
> the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last
> telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
> emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper
> rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary,
> nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination-
>
> ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really
> in the total animal soup of time-
>
> and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden
> flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter &
> the vibrating plane,
>
> who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images
> juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual
> images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of
> consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens
> Aeterna Deus
>
> to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand
> before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected
> yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
> naked and endless head,
>
> the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
> what might be left to say in time come after death,
>
> and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn
> shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for
> love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that
> shivered the cities down to the last radio
>
> with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies
> good to eat a thousand years.
>
>
> II
>
> What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate
> up their brains and imagination?
>
> Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars!
> Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old
> men weeping in the parks!
>
> Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental
> Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
>
> Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless
> jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are
> judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned
> governments!
>
> Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running
> money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a
> cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
>
> Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose
> skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch
> whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks
> and antennae crown the cities!
>
> Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is
> electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius!
> Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is
> the Mind!
>
> Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in
> Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
>
> Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness
> without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
> Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the
> sky!
>
> Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton
> treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations!
> invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
>
> They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees,
> radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is
> everywhere about us!
>
> Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the
> American river!
>
> Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of
> sensitive bullshit!
>
> Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the
> flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and
> suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
>
> Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the
> holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude!
> waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
>
>
> III
>
> Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you're madder than I am
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you must feel strange
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you imitate the shade of my mother
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you laugh at this invisible humour
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where your condition has become serious and is reported on
> the radio
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of
> the senses
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of
> Utica
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the
> Bronx
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the
> game of actual pingpong of the abyss
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent
> and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its
> body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew
> socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect
> your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together
> singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets
> the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own
> souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic
> bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O
> skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the
> eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
>
> I'm with you in Rockland
>
> in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the
> highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the
> Western night
>
>
>
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------
------
> Transatlantic Howl! A Dedication to Allen Ginsberg
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------
------
> poetry anthology | writings | weed's home page
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------
------
>
> comments to [email protected]
> revised 27 September 2004
> URL http://alt.venus.co.uk/weed/writings/poems/agh.htm
>
>
> Regards,
> Tom.
>
> "People funny. Life a funny thing." Sonny Liston
>
> Thomas J.Watson - Cabinetmaker (ret.)
> tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (real email)
> http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1
In article <[email protected]>,
Joe <[email protected]> wrote:
>> No, that's not how Usenet works. All of the messages go into the same
>> location, and the Newsgroups: header differentiates them at display time.
>> The only exception to this is for moderated groups.
>
>It may be his interface to the group. i.e Google or some other interfaces
>may loose a post here and there IMHO.
>
>> (administering Usenet newsservers off and on since 1992)
>
>Joe
>On the net before there was a net on and off starting around 1981. Anyone
>remember 300 or even 110 BAUD?
Sheeeit! I go back to the days when 300 baud was considered 'high speed'!
And 'old' equipment that ran at approximately 47.5 baud.
> Most people don't know what "BAUD" is. :):)
><grin>
*everybody* knows that a modem runs a baudy house.
On 7 Dec 2004 22:13:42 GMT, Dave Hinz <[email protected]> wrote:
>On Sat, 04 Dec 2004 23:28:19 GMT, mac davis <[email protected]> wrote:
>>>
>> yeah... with my $5,500 apple II... *groan*
>
>Keep it long enough, and it may get back up there (think eBay)
Probably should have... but...
I couldn't find a trash compactor, so I gave it to the kids...
On Sat, 4 Dec 2004 00:14:12 -0500, "Joe"
<[email protected]> wrote:
>> No, that's not how Usenet works. All of the messages go into the same
>> location, and the Newsgroups: header differentiates them at display time.
>> The only exception to this is for moderated groups.
>
>It may be his interface to the group. i.e Google or some other interfaces
>may loose a post here and there IMHO.
>
>> (administering Usenet newsservers off and on since 1992)
>
>Joe
>On the net before there was a net on and off starting around 1981. Anyone
>remember 300 or even 110 BAUD? Most people don't know what "BAUD" is. :):)
><grin>
>
yeah... with my $5,500 apple II... *groan*
On Sat, 04 Dec 2004 23:36:49 +0000, Robert Bonomi wrote:
> Sheeeit! I go back to the days when 300 baud was considered 'high speed'!
>
> And 'old' equipment that ran at approximately 47.5 baud.
>
Here's the stuff I learned on. The 1620 was while in college in '64. The
36/40 and 7094 came later after I joined IBM in '66. The data cell would
make any disk drive look reliable...
Those consoles clattered out 2 or 3 chars/second.
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IBM_1620>
<http://www.frobenius.com/7090.htm>
<http://www.beagle-ears.com/lars/engineer/comphist/c20-1684/fig012.jpg>
<http://www.columbia.edu/acis/history/datacell.html>
-Doug
poetry anthology | writings | weed's home page
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)
Howl
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an
angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan
angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating
Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene
odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in
wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a
belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley,
death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and
endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the
mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the
motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine
drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride
neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the
roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light
of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to
holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children
brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain
all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and
sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening
to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to
Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the
stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the
moon
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and
anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and
wars,
whose intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights
with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous
picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of
China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard
wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow
toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop
kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in
Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian
angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural
ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse
of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or
soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind
but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered
in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and
shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out
incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic
tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets
in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos
wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry
also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before
the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars
for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and
intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof
waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and
screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses
of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass
of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind
a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to
pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed
shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of
the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass
and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and
continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the
wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of
consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset,
and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the
snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the
lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars,
N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denverjoy to
the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner
backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings &
especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys
too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a
sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover
with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams &
stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank
docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the
Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads
shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the
muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of
onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose
up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth
floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations
which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas
dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an
Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day
for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successfully unsuccessfully, gave up
and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were
growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison
Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron
regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of
advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were
run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked
away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup
alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway
window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all
over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished
the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in
their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's
hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision
or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver &
waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver
and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome
for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each
other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated
its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible
criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts
who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender
Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive
or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left
with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently
presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the
shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous
lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol
electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table,
resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears
and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns
of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering
with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight
solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare,
bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of
the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last
telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper
rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary,
nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really
in the total animal soup of time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden
flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter &
the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images
juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual
images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of
consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens
Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand
before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected
yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn
shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for
love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that
shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies
good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate
up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars!
Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old
men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental
Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless
jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are
judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned
governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running
money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a
cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose
skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch
whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks
and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is
electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius!
Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is
the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in
Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness
without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the
sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton
treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations!
invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees,
radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is
everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the
American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of
sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the
flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and
suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the
holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude!
waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humour
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on
the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of
the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of
Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the
Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the
game of actual pingpong of the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent
and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its
body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew
socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect
your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together
singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets
the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own
souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic
bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O
skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the
eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the
highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the
Western night
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Transatlantic Howl! A Dedication to Allen Ginsberg
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poetry anthology | writings | weed's home page
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comments to [email protected]
revised 27 September 2004
URL http://alt.venus.co.uk/weed/writings/poems/agh.htm
Regards,
Tom.
"People funny. Life a funny thing." Sonny Liston
Thomas J.Watson - Cabinetmaker (ret.)
tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (real email)
http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1