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 <ati@etext.org>; 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///




