mmmmcmxcviii

needs

who’s needed are the mountains

who’s needed is the sea

i’m thirsty where’s my fountain

pen what’s wanted here’s not me

wants

mmmmcmxcvii

take the time to allow your friend

to finish what he is saying before speaking again

take a breath

and do not speak until he is finished saying whatever he has

to say,

whatever he is

trying to tell you at this very moment

take a moment to listen to your friend

the person standing with you, let him finish what he’s saying

mmmmcmxcvi

the youngest swan

dipped inelegantly and

cooed a lot

things that flappers

or teenaged swans

were not so much known for

at least up to that point

   but from that day forward

as the story goes

(because it does)

if our ears were to catch wind

of a coo or two

or if

anywhere

within

the horizons we with sight behold

catch but a glimpse

either of us

even if in the faintest peripheries

of anyone or anything

awkwardly or with even a stictch of clumsiness

diving

   falling

      swooping downward

perhaps having just been sprung from a springboard

well

we’d immediately think of

swans

we also think of

our very own tenaciously deviant cygnet

who is now

in our beloved flock

the eldest swan

mmmmcmxcv

i feel a bit

cross
-eyed
this afternoon

then i think
what?
i never do this of an
afternoon

which is a
flat-out
lie

but only because
this afternoon
i am
(as i sometimes
if not often do)

attempting
to embody
someone
not myself

this makes sense

after all
i have two degrees 

in the dramatic arts

have had a lot of fun
pretending to be
people i am not

and
(probably less so)
practicing the art of
empathy

not that i was
or am
that spectacular
at either

but it could easily
and truly be said of me
(as it could of anyone else, i suppose)
that i am a

liar

mmmmcmxciv

talk to me

i could call mom

that seems too direct, too intimate and a

wee bit too plainspoken, doesn’t it?

(an easy thing too remember ought to be that

if and when you find that there’s a lull in the conversation

simply

toss a random question; always

be prepared—utilize those

three years spent in the boy scouts—keep a list of

ten or so pre-drafted in your wallet so that you

have them with you at all times) (an idea that is

not necessary when conversations never manage to transpire in your

presence)

mmmmcmxciii

with apologies

or feeling i must

when things get this opaque

question mark /

you question mark /

i already did /

do you detect a pattern?

anyway, it’s just a way to make the possibilities endless

you know

when you need endless possibilities

no regrets

mmmmcmxcii

it's gonna be an abstract morning

to tighten one’s grip on

intermittent environs

takes (requires) a disciplined

stamina

how might one muscle one’s way out of

eden?

arriving at the hospital with a

heart that’s lost its rhythm (and, by then, hopefully, a will to survive)

it's gonna be an abstract day

mmmmcmxci

walls to walk through

stuffing balled up pairs of socks into

whose underwear?

dirty little details

what wakes us up to

who we are in

gosh, it’s been, like, years

heaven is on the other side of that mountain

aspen sway gracefully on the horizon

mouths to tremble

mmmmcmxc

i wouldn’t call it a transformation

technically, there cannot be any residue left from

this point back, no

minutiae

whatsoever from previous life

(must we go there now)

(most, if not all, of what we’ve become)

aside from that minor technicality, the key for

catalyzation, the only means by which we can arrive

anywhere, which we designate here, from everywhere, and which

i like to call there, is to

never have been

we like to say big bang

mmmmcmlxxxix

instant reinvention

the moment is awake, was

meant to be awoken by some kind of

ingenuity, begins to

cast glances inward, seeking

what a waking moment might be, thinks,

at least we woke up, right?  but to what

where?

and why? perhaps this is

something we’ve worked on for decades

aphasia

mmmmcmlxxxviii

wait four years

for love.  this

is proven fact.  do it.  then

fly like a circus to the rescue.  our

igloo melting under a sedentary sun.

this river is swollen with glacial memory.

mmmmcmlxxxvii

intimacy reimagined

as a huge field of tulips at dusk locking lips with the swaying sky.  you’re

not here.  but i am.  feeling all that i can feel.  being all i can

be, with a shiver rising from my toes all the way up to the sky.  as if i

am one of the gigantic percussive instruments somehow hidden

in the peripheries for an orchestral performance.  played by a

ghost.

mmmmcmlxxxvi

tanks on the streets of kansas

hell hath no fury like yadda yadda yadda.

i’m not really sure whether i should tell you this, but

in the beginning was the war (not the word).

moreover, the beginning was also the end,

my friend.

mishegas.

and so we did not go about our daily routine

any more.  rather, forever

benumbed, we stilly—which is to say most silently—withstood.  until we didn’t,

you and i.

mmmmcmlxxxv

nothing says maturity like being

sandwiched between the longest parts of the day

i get so giddy that time

misses me or fails to get to me.  which is not to

say that it doesn’t alter me in some

hateful way.

never mind.

sifting through a

pliable moment,

unimpressed with the purity of the falling sand.

mmmmcmlxxxiv

Match Game!

Easy.  The game show on which I’d be a willing 

contestant on is Match Game.  Any year, really, so  

long as Gene Rayburn was hosting (most especially if 

he was having a particularly annoying day).  And then,

let’s see, my best case scenario to round out the panel
would be Richard Dawson (of course!), along with
Charles Nelson Reilly (most absolutely!), Betty White,

Bob Barker or Jack Klugman, depending on the day,

and Nipsey Russell.  And when it came down to my
one-on-one, because of course I’d be a finalist,
much as I’d love to go toe-to-toe with the likes of

of Charles Nelson or Betty White, I’d go, and without 

even a moment’s hesitation, with the pro of all pros for the
final question: Our Dear Mister “Kiss,” Sir Dick Dawson.

mmmmcmlxxxiii

Fog City

I’ll do my best to turn this one into
the vaguest riddle – like something
I’d not possibly say to a Sphinx, she
being a she.  So let’s make it Greek,

switch the sex to an Androsphinx.  I
imagine a pair or three, non-concretized,
(so with actual Sphinx flesh!).  Is it working
to relay my love of something un-human that

I can’t live without?  Perhaps.  But I’ve learned to
live without most anything over the past several
years – at least in fell swoops.  Sex.  Texts.  Dollars.
Human engagement.  A domicile.  Walls.  A bed. . . .

But one constant remains: the city wherein I resolved
so many years ago to call, and so lovingly, home.

My Sweet Androsphinxy City

mmmmcmlxxxii

Extended Limerick

I once met a guy from New Orleans

Who consistently made organic noises.

They’d go and they’d come

With yapping and thrums,

Yet when entered his

Vocal chords froze

Just as if all his sounds

Came straight from the ground of

Whichever man banged him

Most boisterous!

mmmmcmlxxxi

Excuses, Excuses!

Why don’t I take those long walks
walks around the lovely, multivarious
neighborhoods in my lovely city like
I used to do on such a regular basis;

locales I’d see so often?  But now,
for so many of them it’s been years,
or as long as a decade, like the duration
it’s been since I’ve taken that short hike

over Mount Tamalpais to the amphitheater,
or driven down or up any stretch of High
way One, felt the warm sand between
my toes traipsing Grey Whale Cove half-

naked or crossing over the Golden Gate
Bridge or the Bay Bridge.  No more excuses!

mmmmcmlxxx

A Short Study of Movement


Oh, this is just great.  Love.  And Star Trek.

And the holy grail.  The Holy Grail.  At two

on a Friday morning.  Watching the stars

explode on a big television set at the foot

of my bed.  By myself.  Feeling incredibly

alone.  But hopeful.  I think?  Sometimes

it’s much harder than it should be just to

put one foot in front of the other.  When

is moving in any direction the answer?

Perhaps often.  But to stay in one spot?

I’d rather risk quicksand.  Or the wrong

direction.  Of so many erroneous ways.

I reject the error of my ways.  No.  I

reject feeling stunted in any way.  In

any way whatsoever.

mmmmcmlxxix

Gay Is Happy Alone

     Homosexuality is essentially being alone. Which is a fight against the
   capitalist bosses who do not want us to be alone. Alone we are dangerous.
                                                                                          —Jack Spicer

While reading this sonnet, you’re re
quired to wear an ass-colored bonnet.
Because being gay is being happy alone.
The fight against capitalism is just an

extra added bonus for z-friends.  And
that’s no snooze.  Snoozers lose.  So
I’ve slept a lot, perhaps, being such a
loss, but shut me up.  You’ve heard this

all before.  But only you.  Only you.  As
I was saying, bun-colored biscuits, hearts
with no tacks, no tackiness.  Or maybe just
come with me to the emergency room.  How

tacky is tachycardia?  It’s the middle of the night
and I’ve been watching too many commercials.

mmmmcmlxxviii

Isionvay of Exes Say in the Istanceday

 

This was no mere vision of love. And I 

swear I don’t astral project, but I always

fly through the best years.  And today,

I’m the only being in the entire universe.

But I’m not sparring with my captain.  I

repeat, captain is hot, and mine, even if

he is so modified sometimes, so transmog

rified.  What’s happening?  What is this place?

Are we atinLay ancingday?  Is it an ollyday?

Hey!  Complicated galaxies are our specialty.

Love is like that.  I mean, that’s love.  We know

this because it’s complicated, just as you are.

I feel less so, day after day, age upon age.  But

I do not want off this ship.  So will you wake me?

I have remained inside of this dream always or

whatever time has been alongside the vision of

you and your existence.  I’m not sparring with

the star.  No.  These years are sometimes lonely 

and they are by far the best.

mmmmcmlxxvii

A Fenced-In Life

I made a sentence

at the job appoint

ment.  It was an

assignment, like a


task.  I made a note

of it.  The note was

flat, very off-key.

But I could type


so fast it meant

something to man

agement.  Who held

a check in the air as


the breeze blew it.

I was sentenced to

a prison, poisoned

in it.  A cubicle to


cry in.  Cold meat

for a keyboard.  A

supervisor with a

mirror for a window.


This was the dream

I had before the in

ternment.  I meant

interview.  Cool swings


swaying in the syc

amore shade.  The

shady sway of the

swing beneath the


sycamore tree.  As

a child I’d swing on

a tire under an elm

and graduated soon


to the swingset which

blew beneath the.  I

was ill, I was sick, I

was swaying and the


leaves were turning

rusty and leaving.

It was cold, I blew

my nose.  We built


a fence around the

swingset and I would

call it home, call it

cubicle.  I learned


to dance the bossa

nova under the syc

amore tree after

the fence went up


and the swing went

down.  I was the

boss of each of my

relentless dreams.

mmmmcmlxxvi

28 Zeroes

loo too

boo hoo

moo new

mumu

moue glue

poo doo

goo goo

100 zoo

coo fu

ooo sue

blew slew

rue you

mmmmcmlxxv

Dirge Demeaner

Shuffle off your loafers.
Stuff your Draino into all
the holes in your apartment.

Turn your strawberries the
sweetest with artificial sweetener
and slurp each half frozen berry

like meat.  A meat meal, after all,
lasts all day, and sometimes then
some.  Furrow your brow at each

debt collector’s call.  Open the call
with extended silence like the echo
of a robocall’s mirror (hold your

open call to that mirror to make
this particular point).  Take a month
to figure out who you want to be

and then spend each remaining
month being exactly who that is.
If you get bored with that being,

take another month to reevaluate
whoever you want to become next
without dwelling on the meaning of

progress, without delving into the
well of wisdom, whatever those are. 

Be a dumdum.  Be a wise-ass.  Enter 

your next era with a confident hunger.

mmmmcmlxxiv

All Paths Take Me To Just Beyond
Where I Can See From Here And Then
A Blockade Is Reached

Yes, I keep saying quartets when I mean
quatrains.  I’m going through my photo
graphs, something I do in between bouts
of being actually busy, putting in proper

dates, tagging names to faces, deleting dup
licate files.  I’ve been doing this for years but 

in its current iteration now I’m up to March of 
2015, and while I never used to give away dates

in here this easily, I’m concerned that, since it
was soon after that year, let’s say, when all of my
big troubles began, I’m now worried that going 

through the remaining 11 years of photos might also 

get a bit too depressing.  Might be a repeat.  But 

so much time has passed, it’ll probably be more, 

oh, I don’t know, I don’t like to think I’m that too

nostalgic, have gotten some criticism from people 

that know me that maybe I should find a new hobby
since, well, the past.  And I had one.  And it was
pretty good up until, again, around the middle of
2015.  Hell broke loose slowly after that, and in

evitably I wind up here, typing you this short
means of an escape from what that same past
has now, inevitably gotten stuck inside.  So what?
Well, I might just learn something about myself,

I think, a rebuke of the criticism, that suggestion
clearly made by the few who know me and do
actually care about my well-being.  Lately, I’ve
been thinking a lot about the fact that almost

no one I’m in contact with these days, especially
locally, knows me from before that year.  Who I
was pre-2015.  And that year was pretty fun, on
the whole.  To pinpoint a moment where things

fell apart, still, would be toward the end of that
year, or it could go back to the previous one. When 

did the good times end?  What, if anything would I 

call good times since?  What are the reasons that

those seem to be so significantly rarer these
past few years?  Anyone might say that it does
not have to be this way.  But my focus has been
so significantly on bringing myself back to a

contentment, a happiness replete with pleasure,
that existed before then.  But did it?  As those
years and the one in which I exist grow further 

apart, am I losing objectivity about such things?  

As an artist, I’ve conversely always been more left-
brained than I have been right-brained.  And I
can see the formula that I followed for years
that seemed to work so wonderfully.  But is that

just a fantasy, a mirage that my supposedly
analytical brain is giving me.  False memories
or a false sense of whatever I was feeling and
whatever stress I went through back then as

opposed to that which I go through these days?
I stare at these pictures from back then, with its
up-to-then imbalancce of pictures of me, often 

just my face (a selfie), and wonder, but cannot 

look inside each photograph’s face to be able 

to more scientifically discern the differences
that exist due to the passing of this growing
percentage of my life’s duration.  Perhaps it’s

time to shake up all of my routines, take up alter

native hobbies from selfie cataloging.  But the photos

ease my mind so.  Would that life were so easy as 

up being down, down being up, etc.  I want to relive 

without living it again, just to include the edits that 

come from having this life.  But of course that is just

fantasy.  How can I shorten those old long-term
goals to fit within this reality?  Is the key to feeling

like I have it all just a mind-trick?  Do I need a new
pair of glasses?  What can I dredge up in order to
make any kind of substantial breakfast?  How do I
get over this one last hump?  I keep asking myself.

Whether or not these are the right questions to ask.

mmmmcmlxxiii

Fantastical Stories

What I wanted to tell you was

that I had messed up.  I didn’t

really understand how I had,

but I had most definitely done

something horrible because I

was in this situation that comes

obviously from having really

messed up.  But I wasn’t talking

to you.  I was alone and not talking

about how I had messed up, just

thinking about the fact that I surely

must have and that it was something

horrible, the stuff of scary movies,

and I was pacing around, back and

forth, in my apartment that was all lit

up in the middle of the night wondering

how on earth I could have messed up

so horribly.  I kept picking up my phone

to call you then walking over to the com

puter that sat at the desk sometimes—

that is where it was at the moment—

almost ready to type to you that a bad,

bad thing had happened, almost ready

to hear your voice say “Hello,” and then

somehow manage to get out the words

about the situation I found myself in,

but I just could not bring myself to do

either of these things.  Instead, I just

kept pacing the apartment realizing

what a horrible pickle I had gotten

myself into but wondering like mad

trying to figure out whatever it was

I surely had done to get myself into

this mess.

mmmmcmlxxii

Empty Pockets and a Wealth of Information

Perhaps I should be sleeping.  Instead, my
mind is racing at a dizzying speed, so much 

so that I cannot stop it to focus on a damned 

thing, nor sleep.  And there’s much too much

that needs to be done.  Yet (and for example) 

I’ve no money.  There are a few pennies in a 

plastic tub in my closet, but didn’t we stop mak

ing pennies – can we even use them anymore?

So, the persistence of being so broke.  Which
indeed I am, and most especially now.  My
weekly box of food did not arrive – it usually
arrives on Monday, every once in a while on

Tuesday, but it’s now Wednesday.  I’m sitting
here in the dark, and I don’t want to write
on this subject any more – even though swim
ming through my head are a million pieces of

the story of what I have already begun and now
want nothing more than to end.  I’m missing any 

sense of ________ [insert either: humor, taste, 

smell, sight, direction, camaraderie, belonging, 

self].  I have lived in this city for over twenty-

five years now.  I’ve grown to loathe conveying

these feelings of depression.  Which most often 
(or most always) comes with some positivity, an

I can do this attitude.  While the notion that
I might not be able to grows within me.  It’s
that clock ticking, the age factor; deadlines,
which are what I’ve built a career around making

with flair, keep moving to a later date.  Plans
get swept under a rug in hopes they are for
gotten.  This just isn’t me.  I look to my left,
searching for a good way to transition into a

better life, a way to finish what I’m saying
without having stepped backwards.  Nothing
like that exists that I can see, either left, right,
directly in front of me, or (and my neck hurts

as it always does these days) when I crane my
pained neck around) on the wall behind me. I 

so want to laugh. I think of turning on the tele
vision, but something had caught my eye when

I first looked at the wall beside my bed. I look to
my left again. It’s a book’s cover art (of course it’s
a book).  There’s a cigarette hanging from a dog’s 

mouth.  The book is portrait of the artist as a young

dog, stories by the poet Dylan Thomas.  I can’t 

recall having ever read any poetry by him, 

but he’s someone that’s on my list (when I’d

picked it up from some Free: Take One box, 

I had assumed that is what it was, poetry).  It’s 

the bottom half of the cover of the book, the dog
seemingly mimicking the author (I assume) who’s 

pictured on the top half with a cigarette poked

at an odd angle into his mouth.  Mirror images,

I suppose, the poet and the dog, with cigarettes

dangling.  Well.  I suppose that I will go with that. 

And a hopefully somewhat redeeming word of apo

logy to you.  Now, have I done anything at all here?

Has my dignity been regained, in the very least?
I sit a moment and make the assumption that
it has not.  So, uphill I must go.  Or else, right?

mmmmcmlxxi

Koko Schnookums

Koko Schnookums had a name
and it was Koko Schnookums.

He carried around two pillows
(yes, he!) upon which he couldn’t

rest his weary head, should he
have had one.  Koko was baking

a strawberry pie, facing the
proper direction.  He’d drink a

tightly wound Muscle Milk just for
a couple of tightly wound muscles. 

He’d open the refrigerator door, 

which was low to the ground, so 

he’d bend over, look around inside

of the cool refrigerator, and pull out

a beer.  It was something cheap,
this particular beer, like most of

what was kept in the refrigerator
(which was smallish, and quite

low to the ground.  Koko would 

belch around four to five times, 

on average, after drinking one 

of his cheap beers. And after that 

fifth belch he’d likely be found
stooped over his two pillows,

once again at the refrigerator, 

scrounging around for another

cheap beer.  As always, if he 

found one, he’d drink it.  And if

not, he’d go back to the stove to
do a bit of cooking, once again

his body pointed just the right 

direction (in this case, toward 

the stove) where he’d stir a bit 

or turn over a few items that 

were frying in a pan above an

electric heat, or he’d put on

some rice.  Or he’d sidle over

to a cutting board atop which

were a slew of vegetables and

next to which was a paring

knife, and he’d go about slicing
and dicing and peeling and once

in a while julienning the veggies
that had been lain atop the board,

that were at the ready, to to say,

and then he’d either pick up the

cutting board and slowly,
using the paring knife, with

the board at just the right
angle, scrape the slices,

dices and/or juliennes into
a pan or bowl that sat upon 

the stove.  And eventually,
he’d carry those pillows of

his back over to the fridge
and bend over, just so,

in an attempt to find another
can something to whet his

worked-out whistle.  And in such

efforts he’d most often succeed.

mmmmcmlxx

What’s for Supper?

(This one is after Diane di Prima’s
“Prevailing Foods at Times” from
her book Dinner and Nightmares.)

Mom gave birth to four children in
three years.  It might take a beat
for you to realize, then, that there
were twins, who were two years

younger than me. Then, a year
later, came my sister. I had the
place and all of the family’s att
ention to myself for nearly two

years, that’s it. All this is to say
that when it came time for supper
(which, in Arkansas, is what other

folks call dinner), it was every 

kid to him or herself.  After first help
ings were served, there were rarely
seconds for anyone.  And there were
only a few regular suppertime meals

that my mother would prepare for us
for our family evening meals. They
were something like this:

1. Hamburgers (my dad raised a few cattle, so we always had a freezer full of beef) and French fries (from frozen sometimes, but most often from our garden’s potatoes)
2. Tuna casserole (this was my least favorite of regular meals – it had cream of mushroom soup in it – Campbell’s condensed, of course)
3. Fish sticks (frozen) with French fries (see above) or macaroni and cheese (Kraft from the blue box) and probably some green beans – I think these came from cans, but they could have been from either our garden or my paternal grandparents’ garden
4. Beef stew that sat in the Crockpot all day with potatoes and carrots
5. Fried catfish and hush puppies – this was one of my favorites, but it would require that someone went fishing and had some luck that day, and I despised fishing, a common pastime of my dad’s and his parents on weekends.
6. Breakfast for dinner – fried or scrambled eggs, toast, milk, maybe a hashbrown (from frozen) and bacon or ham. (It’s possible I’m misremembering this one, but I’ve always loved breakfast for dinner.
7. Sandwiches (usually baloney, sometimes cold ham) and potato chips (usually Lay’s regular)
8. Sloppy Joe’s – which was also one of my least favorite regular meals.
9. Chili with beef (or sometimes deer) and beans with saltine crackers.
10. Pizza from a frozen box
11. Pork chops or pork steaks of some sort, pan fried, usually with macaroni and cheese and green beans.
12. Salmon patties - made from canned salmon with added saltine crumbs and egg, fried in a pan.

I’m sure I’m not remembering one or two 

of the meals we’d have on a regular basis, 

but I can add that we’d occasionally have as 

side dishes okra (fried or boiled – the latter 

of which only me and my mom would eat), 

black-eyed peas, pinto beans, green beans, 

sauerkraut (again, only my mother and I ate 

this), and there would quite often be corn

bread – oh, and we’d also have hot dogs

for supper pretty regularly.

mmmmcmlxix

Shout Out to Who I’m Becoming

Type 2 diabetes.  How many of you in here
have type 2 diabetes, show of hands?  Did
you know that you can be diabetic for years
and then one day, poof!, you’re no longer

diabetic?  How about that?  Oh, I have a walk-in 

closet at my new apartment.  How many of you, 

you know, as a child....?  How many of you dreamt of 

having a walk-in closet?  I know I didn’t.  But boy,

was that ever a sort of merit badge of wealth we 

were taught by the sitcoms in the days of our youth, 

am I right?  I now can say, proudly and loudly, that
I have a second bedroom in the lovely apartment 

in which I live.  Crazy!  That’s crazy y’all.  And pimp
daddies!  Pimp!  Daddies!    Now don’t you have it
made in the shade?  You know I’m not kidding!
Let’s hear it for all of you pimps out there,

show of hands, we’re all friends, now come on,
seriously, raise ’em up you fabulous pimps.  We

can complain about each day until our mouths
bleed, can we not?  I mean, there’s an immeasurable

amount of bitching we can do.  But God is most definitely 

watching over us, is he not?  And that is no laughing matter, 

my friends.          That is the real deal.

mmmmcmlxviii

A Great Idea Saves the Day

Or that’s what I’ve dubbed it.  My
Great Idea.  It might sound like a
scheme, but I don’t do schemes.
Maybe you know what I mean,

but what a truly pandora’s box
of a sentence that was.  Anyway,
already I want to change the
subject.   Mostly because sud

denly I am having a run with
the nausea.   I almost said
the trots, instead, as that is
what my Grandma Hazel

would have said to anyone
within listening distance and
without a seeming care in the
world what anyone might think

of her, all six foot two of her
(she didn’t just have a command
ing presence, she demanded
it).  Not that anyone would have

looked down upon her for announcing
so boldly her bout with diarrhea.
It would have been quite difficult
to criticize anything she’d say as

she spoke with such a wry sense
of humor and with never even an
extraneous syllable (but she’d make
two out of every normally singular

syllable being from the part of the
South in which she resided at the
beginning and end of her life).  So,
the runs.  And I’ve now accomplished

changing the subject and the tone
of what began as an optimistic and enth
usiastic cabin made of words.  I mean,
it began that way and now wants to

make its final thoughts heading in
exactly the opposite direction.
So if it grabbed you by the get-go,
you’re no doubt a bit turned off

by how things seem to be winding
down.  If so, I’m very sorry about
that.  If it makes you feel any better
(and do you have Pepto Bismol handy,

by chance?) that initial fantastic idea
remains not only doable by all perpsec
tives that I can muster, but it is a plan 

that I intend to implement.  And so 

if I say stay tuned for further information,
I’d surely mean it, as the plan is an idea
most relevant to such pedantic, low-brow
activities as the one in which both you and

I are currently no doubt voluntarily choosing
to activitely participate.  So.  I would welcome
it if you to stay tuned to these pages for further
information on this thing that I call a Great Idea.