Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

as a group
of writers
& artists
we damn sure
got history
in this frying pan
flash world
that sure does
count for a lot

outa the fire
into the wok
flash-cook fine

May we all celebrate Studio Eight &
Happy Autumn and/or Spring Equinox--
Depending on whether one is in the Northern or
Southern hemisphere of good old mother Earth.

Autumn hung over and looked,
she said, "The sun's bright
and they're not ready for me yet."

Dobbled over her head
and locked in snug with the nest.

many of us in the fall of our lives
we been traveling that road for sooooooo
long, sticking to our writing guns
there's a power here, what we do with it
is up to us, in fact we are doing it, in our day to day
writings, which is really enough, and we all know it,
plain as the sun rising in the morning.
34 views here and the average 1 outta 10 responses
thats the way of anyplace ive been boarding on the internet
it'd be real interesting to hear and know how all of u feel about
what we are doing here, where u wanna go as an expresser
of words???

i keep hoping I'll get it down.
i'll learn how to say what i truly feel. that i will, indeed, truly feel
what is truth
what feel?
what?

thanks for askin

curious i b
specially since we
all been communing
with words for umteen
years, there is a power
here, a stick to itness
that cant be bought
its priceless in fact
and should never be thought of
as a waste of time
we be the internet explorers
our words ring out forever
across cyber space is the placedom

there have been storms and lulls,
and we b on a roll again, we found
a one of a kind diner, and whenever
we're out this way we stop for a bite,
to get caught up on the day, to sing,
to write, to just live for a moment
before getting back on the horse..

Stopping in from time to time
Leaving comments and a bit of rhyme
Words from Tsenacommacah

Another faint and winking star
Feelings expressed as if by souls from afar
Brought together by our fire

what i feel ... damned if
i know anymore - if i ever did
I'd like to express something simple & clean
in plain unadorned language - but
i get so into (then lost) in the play of
sound/shape/play of language
then off to the races ya know
following first this trail
then that
gets wild ya know
i do it for the doing it
tell myself that the next word I write will be the last
but ain't yet quite left off of it ...
the way it looks now I'll probably
still be fooling myself about it all
right up to
the moment I walk on from
this world

i feel that the
last jam stirred
the juices again
sometimes i feel
that like amazon killed
bookstores, facebook
zonked writing sights
although i feel the
communication between
the few of us remaining
is amazing, at times
i like ?'s like mnaz's
ernest hemingway what if,
but am amazed by the turn it took
yet it came back to the point
of the whole ? finally
i dont feel any writing activity is a waste
of time, although if someone feels
there wasting time they should do something about it
which is probably why so many have gone, i dunno
i have no control over how others conduct
their lives, i have enough trying to keep myself straight
thanks for keeping it positive S8ers

if a poet, a poet
if a writer, a writer
sometimes unplugged works best
but if a sharer, a sharer
communication craves response
let me know you hear me!
and i feel less alone

you're heard

we be!

How many scraps of paper with poems
and stories can fill a stack of boxes?
How many journals packed cover to cover
with writing can be piled year upon year upon year
on a bookshelf, left only for the kids
to toss away in the trash once we pass?
What would be the purpose in that?

You could own issue after issue of
The Writers Market or The Poets Market,
dog-ear the pages, color code possibilities
with a variety of highlighters, pink, blue, purple,
organize and reorganize your work printed out,
place it in piles each with a little stickum post-it
note reminding yourself which publishers might be
interested based on two or three paragraphs in those
ridiculous books which tell you they only accept this, that
or the other topic, line limitations spelled out like this
whole thing is some kind of puzzle to be solved and
you can bookmark website submission guideline pages
dozens upon dozens, flag the sites, keep going back
to review all the absolutely stifling number of rules and
regulations, oh WAIT! Is it doubled-spaced typeset in
Times New Roman? No WAIT! Do I have 3 extra lines
when the limit is only 24? WHAT THE FUCK?
What's the point? Submission Reader fees, $10, $20, $50? Which pile
of printouts goes to which publication and did you remember
to include a stamped self-addressed envelope and do you realize
the text says you'll probably never hear back from them despite
the hours and hours, days and weeks, months and years
you spent trying to fit your work into their fricking parameters?

How many hours, how many days, how many weeks, how many years
can you spend paying the subscription fee for The New Yorker, wading
through poem after poem after poem, studying the requirements of the
NEW Poetry Editor who just took his seat this year or was it last year
and next year there will be another one with even DIFFERENT parameters
to meet and how many years can this go on? What the hell is the point?
MAYBE you can get a few published here and there on this journal site or
that so-called top shelf literary site or this or that blog or that or this
print anthology and guess what? You still have to buy one to see your fricking
name in print and for what? What's the point? Maybe they pay you back the
$50 you invested to do all this fricking work and maybe, just maybe, you
can buy a few more copies and give them away to friends and family at
Christmas for a gift and here's the BIG maybe, maybe someone will actually
eventually READ on of those pieces you finally got published after all that
fricking work where you had to edit your piece down, whittle it so it doesn't
even say what you wanted to say in the beginning and the whole damn thing
lost it's life, gagged itself, drowned in its own spit and shit, what the fuck
is the goddamn point, yanno?

Fuck that.
I'm an internet writer.
I write right here where there's a better chance
someone may even see it and read it and not have to pay
for it and where hopefully my words will touch someone's
heart one day and they can reply immediately, instant gratification
and say, "bravo! you reminded me I was still alive!"

Yeah, gimme the internet any day over all that bullshit.
I'm published. Here it is. Read it. That's it. Done.

There's LIFE in these pages. Real true breathing life and
nobody's gonna fit me into a box to meet their ridiculous rules
for approval.

Eight is the number of infinity, the symbol turned sideways
where there are endless possibilities and we think together, breath together,
feel together, spill hearts and minds and LIFE together and if those fucking
publishers don't get it, they can forget it, 'cause this is enough for me and
when it's time to read, I just print out whatever the fuck I want to read and
it's DONE! LIVE Life ... on stage.... straight from my pen to some listener's ear
where their heart resides.

This work is ALIVE. There's enough fucking death and I'm having no part of it.
Halleluyah I can't even spell that word and praise be the Internet, the GOD of NOW!
Our writing gets out there somehow.... one piece at a time instantfuckingtaneously!

YES!

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V

Most users ever online was 140 on June 28th, 2007, 7:23 am
(invite your friends and enemies)