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[23 Mar 2004|07:54pm]
is everyone still interested in this?

could we talk to someone with access to a printing press to see how much it would cost to put out our own publication?

i'm bored and found this and i still think it would be a lot of fun to get together and put out our very own publication. i just need to know that at least a couple of other people are interested and i could start asking around... maybe we could get some grant or donation...? i feel strange talking about it because most everyone else is in the english department, so i know the least about these kinds of things. any ideas are appreciated.
3 poets | wax poetic?

[18 Dec 2003|12:20am]

so i know this is a lost cause, but i think next semester we should really work out some kind of deal where this group will meet and work. i think it'd be really cool/helpful/all that jazz.

i will try to work it out and get it touch with all of you. just keep hounding my ass about it.
wax poetic?

a haiku [11 Oct 2003|06:19pm]

u k writers group
may or may not be dying
we should write something
2 poets | wax poetic?

[28 Jul 2003|01:56am]


someone start posting some ideas about what to do with this here forum, or better yet some ideas about possibly organizing this magazine at school. that's an order.
wax poetic?

[05 Mar 2003|02:49am]

jesus, boys and girls, we gotta do something with this.
wax poetic?

The Zeitgeist of Costume Jewelry [25 Dec 2002|03:33pm]

Hey y'all -

I had no idea I was a member of this group...Anyone (interested in/have any beautiful ideas for) a UK-based 'zine that we could put out?

Merry Kwanzaa! or is it Kwaanza? or Kiwanis? or does it explode?
1 poet | wax poetic?

here's the first poem. the sacrifice. [19 Dec 2002|02:19am]

i wrote this a few days ago.

The Living Dream
Eric R. Rickert

As a child, long-legged, dusty blonde,
I dreamed of being a superhero.
I dreamed of lifting cars like simple spoons,
reading minds, moving lightning
with the twitch of an eye.
I dreamed of flying.
The flights were senseless,
itchy, full of restlessness;
my hair would stand on end,
my skin burning hot in the sky.
In dreams I felt the raw power
of being alone with the wind,
the static, like waking up.

Last summer, full grown, sun-drenched,
I tried to fly once again, in real life.
On a warm day downtown, I walked along
the edges of an old bridge. The rusted water
it leaked fell into the wind and disappeared.
My feet overhanging the edge, the invisible air
reached into my muddy hair and told me
secrets of life, then pushed me over. The flight
was long. I watched the glittering water grow toward me,
the wind reaching under my clothing to hold me closer.
This was the living dream. Below, in the river,
a fish sat quietly on the surface, then slowly sank into the void.
1 poet | wax poetic?

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