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                              POETRY . . .
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THE MISSED MILLENNIUM



 A new millennium approaches
 and the old fin de siecle madness
 begins to spread, the violence,
 the hatred, the mutual distrust
 and paranoia -- we've already flayed
 the tosser of the monkey wrench.

 A few years got lost
 a while back -- so keep
 your millennial angst at bay
 (of dust) for at least
 another thousand revolutions
 around the sun. For ten
 of your terrestrial years
 we observed you as peers,
 walking and talking among you,
 fathoming the human condition
 as best we could -- what it means
 to be ephemeral,
 to feel the flesh,
 to apprehend
 beginnings and endings,
 to feel the flesh,
 to welcome insights like flashes
 in the darkness, the darkness
 that is terra cognita
 to the benighted,
 to feel the flesh --
 and for the decade-long
 duration of our experiment
 we nullified your sense
 of the passage of time.
 For you there was only
 the eternal now moment,
 the augenblick
 that alone among you
 Meister Eckhart seemed to understand.
 For ten years we sowed
 your fertile soil
 with gratuitous graces
 and subliminal messages
 and watched you grow, then vanished
 back to the bay of dust
 and the keep of old forgotten dreams,
 and we snapped our fingers
 and you all woke up.
 Bed-wetters, the lot of you.

 So you ve missed your new millennium,
 it s ten years behind you
 and the world didn't come to an end.
 But rest assured
 we can arrange for you
 to arrange that for you. Don't push
 your luck and you'll be fine.

Copyright 1995 KEITH ALLEN DANIELS, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Keith Allen Daniels, a member of the Science Fiction Poetry
Association since 1979, has been publishing poetry since 1972. He's
been called "one of the foremost science fiction poets of our time"
by David Kopaska-Merkel, editor of _Dreams & Nightmares_. His poems
have appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction, Weird Tales, Recursive
Angel, Poets of the Fantastic, Narcopolis and numerous others and
anthologies. In addition to winning the National Association of
Independent Publishers Fallot Literary Award for What Rough Book in
1993, his work has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Rhysling
Award (10 times), the Pushcart Prize and the Clark Ashton Smith
International Poetry Award. His other books include Loopy Is The
Inner Ear (Quick Glimpse Press, 1993), Dyscrasias (Anamnesis Press,
1994/1995), Field Notes From The Antipodes (Dark Regions Press, 1995)
and With All of Love: Selected Poems by James Blish (editor; Anamnesis
Press, 1995). He lives in San Francisco with his ladylove, the artist
Toni Montealegre, and likes to make funny voices.
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 DRUNKARD'S LAMENT
   by Bud LeRoy
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 Where do you go when you're completely out of space
 And the world's pushing in on all sides?
 While everyone's rushing at a mile-a-minute pace
 And you have nowhere at all left to hide?

 When the people that you work with don't really understand
 And they drive you so crazy you can't think,
 Let me give you a suggestion on how to take a stand,
 Sit right down and have yourself a drink!

 After five or six it doesn't matter what those bastards do,
 When they talk to you, pretend that you don't hear.
 And If it hasn't dulled your senses 'til nothing bothers you,
 Then sit right down and have another beer.

 Now if their very presence makes you want to throw a fit,
 I really think you shouldn't raise a stink.
 You might consider violence, but I'm loathe to advise it,
 Why not sit right down and have another drink?

 Life takes on such dimensions from the bottom of the glass,
 It makes you so damn happy you could almost shed a tear . . .
 "Hey buddy, if you look at me again I'll knock you on your ass!
 Yo' barkeep, would you bring another bottle over here?"

 Boy I'm feeling kinda' frisky, and as strong as Hercules.
 A double shot of Turkey, barkeep, since you're kinda' near.
 Shouldn't drive?  Are you kidding, I can handle it with ease!
 And by the way, I'll chase that with a beer.

 I really do hate fighting, it's not something that I chose.
 There was that time my nose broke, and it blackened both my eyes.
 But it's really close to never that I ever lose.
 Besides, he must have been three times my size.

 My wife says that my drinking's gonna' drive her to her grave.
 Hey, barkeep, there's a reason to set me up once more.
 Hell, all she ever does is cry and rant and rave . . .
 Sober people are such a monumental bore!

 I'm getting kinda' dizzy, could you help me to my car?
 My head is really spinning, the car is way too far.
 I'm really rather sleepy, I'll just rest here on the bar.
 I think I've had way too much to drink.
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 Copyright 1995 Bud LeRoy, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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  THE HANGOVER
    by Bud LeRoy
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 Have you ever woken up with your eyes so swollen shut
 That you had to pry them open just to see?
 With your lips stuck to the pillow and your butt up in the air
 And someone else's tooth stuck in your knee?

 Have you ever laid face-down in the rain, on the ground,
 Because you were too blitzed to crawl on back inside?
 Now let me tell you boys, I'm a dedicated drunk,
 But these hangovers are damned near suicide.

 My friends are telling me that I've had just too much fun.
 I'm too long in the tooth for these wild and woolly nights,
 Even though I'm pretty tough, and now and then I've won,
 In the mornings I'm a really ugly sight.

 So lately I've been thinking that maybe I'll stop drinking
 But I don't know what to do with my spare time.
 I guess I could start smokin', the reefer I'll start tokin'
 But then I forget just where I left my mind.

 I'm a little bit confused - maybe it's pills that I should use!
 (The ones that slow your body way on down.)
 Except I stumble when I walk, and I forget just how to talk,
 And when I slobber, I look like such a clown.

 That good ol' crystal speed - could be just the thing I need!
 It sends your body whirling right off into space.
 And it really fries your brain, but without one there's no pain.
 I think I'd just as soon start breathing mace.

 And what about that crack?  Take one hit and you lay back
 For fifteen seconds, then you want another hit.
 Pretty soon you're looking 'round, out the windows, on the ground,
 Then you throw yourself a paranoiac fit!

 At least there's good ol' smack - find a vein, give it a whack,
 Then you throw up and your head begins to nod.
 Pretty soon they all collapse, then you're taking lots of naps,
 'Til at last you're sleeping underneath the sod.

 Now I don't usually advise, but here's one word to the wise,
 Drugs are something that you should always fear.
 But thinking makes me shudder and sobriety makes me stutter...
 Wadda' ya say we have just one more little beer?
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 Copyright 1995 Bud LeRoy, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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 Bud LeRoy was born in California in 1946, where he immersed himself in
 the local culture through the '60s, but he grew restless and wandered
 the country, far and wide. He's a potter, sculptor and poet who has
 driven friend and family alike to distraction with his verbalizations
 of anything that would rhyme, preferrably Robert Service. He's husband
 to 1, father to 2 and if truth be known- favorite author is Dr. Seuss.
 Bud can be emailed at Fido 1:135/362 or advint@net.gate.
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