Walden Pond Condominiums says Come enjoy your individuality With us. Dial 1-900-NEW-GURU. Calls are just $35 a minute. Ask your parents B4 dropping out. (OPINION) - PAWN MainStreet, USA. Here at the new Prime Anarchist World News Tonite headquarters -- Oshkosh, WI -- I believe with all my heart that 63 year old Bob Denver (known to most as Gilligan) should N O T be thrown in prison for the rest of his life for having a pound of organically grown, paraquot-free Mexican marijuana mailed to his house. When people like me, who don't even smoke pot anymore jump to Gilligan's aid, you can take this as EXCATHEDRO-GOSPELLIC truth-in-all-absolition fact: Our Justice System Has Cancerously Grown Into A Mockery Of Its Very Own Self. I, Prime Anarchist, await its crumbling, of its own stupidity, waiting, awaitingly, with sated breadth. AAA TTTTT IIIII activist A A T I terminology A A A 1 T 3 I 1 inclusionary. A A T I issue 131. June begins us. A A T IIIII Hola, and welcome to the hundred thirty first issue of P.A.P.'s ATI. Activist Timor's Incredible. I'm Prime Anarchist and this is my humble rant for Sonday, February 131st, 1998. We have lots of stuff here, as you can see. Plenty of submissions came in last week and some turned up from the week before. I now wonder how many University of Connecticut might have lost on me. Oh well, if you don't see your stuff this week or next, send it again, I'm not ignoring you; I'm just deft. It's official, Bill Clinton has dedicated Henley's Walden Forest. I'm glad it happened mostly. But I must say I have a little trouble hearing Thoreau quotes from a man who likely spends more money on condoms than I make per year in gross income. But as usual we suffer the need to take the bad along with the good I guess. So there, I give you ATI131. Happy summer reading. Oh, and tell www.amazon.com that you want one of each, and you'd like Prime Anarchist to get the commissions, ok? ------- POSSESSING THINGS You want something, you possess it - and by possessing it, you lose it. -Chris-In-The-Morning- ------- (anyone remember northern exp...?) Dream Truth 2 a poem by Joy Reid Dreams purge and so you surprise me, you odd utilitarian object what are you doing in my dream? The walls ooze filth in subterranean colours the room's a crypt imbued with disease yet somehow I must purge myself clean with this vile, bristled thing. The object lies smug and knowing had it an eye, I swear it would wink. Still, I place it in my mouth grapple with an urge so violent my dislocated self asks why why do this? It is then another enters another somewhat like me she raises brows in fierce speculation 'you deserve better,' she informs and leaves. ATI - All The Fits That Print; We News... /prime /anarchist /productions /#'s /run (brought 2 U by the letter 'p.') http://www.telepath.com/believer http://www.decemberwind.com http://www.swaves.com http://www.summercon.org http://www.beograd.com/truth http://www.hrichina.org http://www.hrw.org http://www.freedom.tp ----------------------------------------------------- ACTIVIST like issue brought 2 U TIMES water 131 by INC for chocolate, was RC Cola. ----------------------------------------------------- Wildman Bill Klinton told this joke Friday at a National Press Club Luncheon. I wonder how his evening followed... A man was rapidly growing tired of his wife's constant habit of saying "just a sec"... "just a sec" every time he tried to get her attention. He felt like he was always on the back burner with her. One night, he called to his wife who was in the other room and was greeted with the usual "just a sec" response. He completely lost control and yelled at the top of his lungs, probably loud enough that the whole block could hear, "I'm so sick of this! No More 'Sec's!!!!!!!!" Immediately realizing what he had just said, he then shouted, with equal volume, "Well... maybe just a little bit more!!!!!!" ------------------------------- ATI IS LIKE MENTAL FLOSS. ------------------------------- This one was forwarded to me, so I e-forward it to you here. You e-heard it, (BAM... BAM... BAM...) first. A PRAYER TO THE GLOBAL CORPORATE GODS: O mighty global corporations, we are helpless without you. Please bring your menial jobs here to our nation and town. Though we have little control over these arbitrary and tedious jobs that create wealth for stockholders rather than us, they are all that we lowly workers deserve. Grant us your x dollars per hour so that we might have hope of purchasing your fine plastic products that bestow lasting contentment. Forgive us when we question your authority or do not work fast enough, for we are but wretched servants, and please oh pretty please do not cast us onto the street where there is much weeping and knashing of teeth. Drive us to serve you ever more diligently until our decrepit bodies and minds break down, then patch us up in your hospitals and with your anti-depressants as much as necessary to return to your service. And when you have used us up completely, secure us in your nursing homes so that we do not annoy you or your still-faithful devotees further. O corporate one big happy family Fathers, some of us are so worthless that our skills do not match your product plans, and our resultant poverty has led us astray to where we have broken the righteous commandments that protect your bountiful property from us. Other backsliders have foolishly attempted to escape the indoctrination of your dollars through the use of mind altering substances. We accept that the only rightful place for these shameful sinners among us is in a cold cell of thick concrete deep within your prisons, where you will still mercifully grace these human by-products with a few quarters per hour to manufacture your office furniture. For those few hours when we are not in your service, thank you for blessing us all with the security of predictable name brand products, and for their copious packaging that assures that no heathens have laid their unclean hands on the wondrous gifts within. Continue to spew your intelligent poisons into our farmland and food to protect us from the sinister insects and microorganisms. Prepare our food and even serve it to us, that we may have more time to serve you. We will gladly consume whatever you hand down to us, for you are all-knowing. Please pacify us with a plethora of prefabricated entertainment, as we have forgotten how to entertain each other. Reveal to us through your inspired media what we are to believe, for surely we cannot trust our own feeble judgement. Similarly commodify any remaining life activities, so that our angst-ridden existence is no more challenging than a series of multiple-choice questions. Most important, guide your wise politicians financially as they strive to make this region of the planet more cost-effective for you by abolishing the evil worker rights laws, corporate taxation, and environmental protections that offend you deeply and drive you away from us. Help them enlighten the more backward cultures by dropping your holy bombs on the people of those demonic nation-states that still refuse to bow down before you. And thank you for undercutting the pitifully small local businesses that would dare defy your divine dominance and threaten the sacred homogenous culture in which you have safely wrapped us. Truly all resources belong to you, and we are but humble stewards of them. Continue to devour the land and excrete into the rivers --- the Earth is your banquet and your toilet. For thine is the empire, the power, and the planet, until you destroy it. Amen. Copyright 1996 BiggerTheyCome (TM) Enterprises, a wholly-owned subsidiary of GlobalGobble Corporation. Just try and steal this intellectual property, you peasant, and see what happens! ATI - All The News That Print, We Fit. From: JBuck22874@aol.com for ; Fri, 5 Jun 1998 17:30:07 -0400 (EDT) Subject: Submissions/J.Buck Message-ID: <6312b682.35786361@aol.com> X-Status: Read X-Mailer: AOL 3.0 for Windows 95 sub 62 Dear Editors: Please consider the poems posted below for publication in an up-coming issue of _ATI_. If you would like a short bio, just let me know. Thank you for your time and effort in reviewing my submissions. Janet Buck (e-mail: jbuck22874@aol.com) The Totaled Farm Motion’s blessing disappeared. The trees were gone like ghosts that someone tapped too hard. Wrathful grapes in puddles where a pasture slept. Dry, dry twigs like dregs of Lipton’s Onion Soup in envelopes of nature torn. All was couched in noise of progress promised like a dozen roses. Steeples of a haystack once, the metal bombed and then removed. The "Displaced Person" wasn’t people; it was seeds of cheerful flowers. All the "trumpeters of Spring" were fallen soldiers in a bunker. The totaled farm was painted over by a tar and gravel road. Blue Jays crying acid tears. All the bounty clouds had kissed had turned to boards upon a truck. These were blessings once removed. Clipped by urban scissors rusted. Justice only showed its face when they were cleaning up the mess. Sticky treads of caterpillars almost drowning in the mud. The Absent Part The galaxy of city life. Mice that bolt and scamper quickly running from the wind in faces. Four-lane rushing to a job. Obligation’s curlers set in tresses of emotion’s head that might have felt the silken wave of brushing out a moment’s hair like kittens in a child’s lap. On the Evening News at night, I heard the list of rapes and murders. Stocks were slipping on the market. Neighbors never borrowed sugar. Tractors sat without a farm. Motion with its plastic covers weather-proofs the heart from aching. Clouds above the earth are lost and no one waits for anyone. D.C. traffic in a stream. Slamming heels with grocery carts. The absent part, the people roots. I lived there for a year at least. No one ever asked my name. We were all like peanut shells beneath the feet of destiny. The elephant was urban strife. The ivory tusks piano keys that sit and suffer in the quiet. Listen for the human touch. It quivered but it never came. The Crosswalk Syllables were evidence of gravel in the microphone. Cold, hot sweat in rampant urges water-colored all the curtains. Steam was special, awful private. He would have a sacred way of lifting up admission’s veil. Inward going at a pace that spelled his faith in tenements becoming gardens. Summer shorts and negligees. Very granted, easy horses only normal women ride. She would put them on alone, barking as a puppy does when someone goes where they cannot and opens doors that should be locked. Hers were guarded gates respected by the rose in glasses waiting. Scars were thorns and fate was guilty of a tunnel carved in assonance of eyes. The crosswalk was a poem of sorts. Shifting gears. A magic clutch. Traffic grew for forty years and this a summer tied to dawn. He would know when it was safe to lay the velvet of his love in drapes around the urns of pity no one else could ever touch. by Janet I. Buck And here's another one by JOY REID; called ROO SHOOT (typed in from a C: by prime anarchist because of difficult technicalities. ATI, overcoming odd greatnesses for over 10 years) Star pricked sky like a tin roof leaks light. Yellow moon howls, strobes between the trees slow stalking. Chink, chink a metallic whimper chink, chink. Follow and if burrows gape plant steps wide until white javelin spotlights the pasture, eels through clumped thistle finding conch shell feeding gum leaf guarding shapes transposed. A boom. The moon recoils, cordite swirls, a conjuror's trick. Yanked, a roo leaps back the rest slip moorings, scatter like pullets. The scene blinks out we chink, chink chink, chink forward towards dark threshing where torch and three of three will combine. Envio a poem by Alfonso Quijada Urias No pretendo sino que algun dia el dueno de la pobre pulperia haga de mis escritos los cucuruchos de papel para envolver su azucar y su cafe a las gentes del futuro que ahora por razones obvias no saborean su azucar ni su cafe. (ed note: accents wouldn't go in full-text.) *** YOU ARE WATCHING; ATI *** NOTAS MUSICAS section is short today. No parodies, and no originals to publish. Get them sooner or later here. For now we have this: Has anyone heard the song "Counterfeit," by Limp Bizkit? Me either. Good. "Somewhere, Alan Freed is laughing," says Southern Connecticut copyright lawyer Mark T. Gould in a recent Soundwaves magazine. Thank you for reading this column. That will be 50 cents. NOTES FROM INSIDE AN ELECTRON by Yak Atom. I don't care about the Y2K bug. Bring it on. I'm refusing to stress one bit about it. If tech plods on past 2000 I shall keep writing HTML, basic, Unix, VB, etc. If not, I go back to pad and pencil. Why, I've been using technology AND notepads since Janet Reno was knee high to a congressman. No fear man. To risk misquoting Hunter Templeton Stockson, "It just can't possibly get weird enough for me." Yak And while we're doling out quotes, here's a WS Merwin that I particularly like. (as if there's anything Merwinish I don't...) "You die without knowing whether anything you wrote was any good. If you have to be sure, don't write." As is the tradition, I'll end with a Prime Anarchist Original Poem. This PAOP brought to you by the Vatican Council on hemp shower soap. (pope's dope on a rope soap) . Send all contributions, contrasting contradictions, . corrections and cohesive camraderie to: . ati@etext.org . primeanarchist@thepentagon.com . or: . marco99@juno.com . . letters to the editor go to: . editor@intst.com . . music notes go to: . lutenist@geocities.com . . poetics go to all of the above! This is entitled Rice Pudding. (c) tomorrow. by marco I'm peeling potatoes for Sonia While I await my rice pudding's finish (she's cooking for 35 people) It'll be done about "fivish." Sonia's is timed for just before six. Jalapeno pizza and some kind of potato stix. I'm cooking for one But I'll share with any Of the 35ish when it is done. ///Thank you for abusing AT&T///