\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\The Hold////////////////////////////
Issue 2 August 23, 1998
Yes, Virginia, there is a Hold, and we're into the second issue already. This time at bat, we have an interview with the awesome word-monger Ron Androla, who's been publishing underground for over thirty years. Dolomite is back, and sicker than ever (literally). Mr. Dembinski will attempt to entertain us with another Bedtime Story, and he will perform the aforementioned interview. I'm Vocab Boy, and remember, the zine is free, the ads are free, and the speech is free.
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Copyright 1998 by Shadow Wall Press. All Rights Reserved.
Published Wheneverwefeelikeit by Shadow Wall Press
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CONTRIBUTORS:
Dave Dembinski
Dolomite
Ron Androla
EDITOR: Vocab Boy
BEDTIME STORY
He sailed a good 4 feet from his chair and landed hard. This man with no legs came over to my window to scream at me. I hadn't meant to run into him, he'd been so low to the ground that i couldn't see him crossing in front of the car. Well, maybe i could have, if i'd been watching for 3 foot tall wheeled apparitions, but i was paying more attention to the cars coming from the other direction. Anyway, satisfied that he'd made some sort of inane point, he scooted off down the street, seemingly none the worse for wear. Needless to say, i drove a bit slower that day, and kept a sharp lookout for anything smaller than a mailbox.
Waterford, that's where i was going before i was so rudely interrupted. Flying down the highway at 90, glad to be quit of the
traffic and stress and urban sprawl my home has perverted itself into. It isn' t long before i am aware of several people waving their paws and honking. I flick the turn signal off and decide against going the wrong direction on a one-way road. Brain shrinkage. It must be cold outside or something.
Pulling into the drive i reflect on the condition of the various potholes i am soon to become inimately acquainted with. Finally, i reach the house. Of course, there's no one there. How foolish of me to expect my bandmates to be where they told me to go. Oh, they left hours ago, informs the drummer's little brother, i think they went to the gorge or
something.
Well, now's as good a time as there'll ever be to see if i got the job at the local hardware store. Nearly deserted. Talking to the manager turns up nearly as much info as i'd get talking to the hoses. I have to talk to my district manager, he stammers, i've been running a
little high on hours. This after the HELP WANTED sign that's been in
the window for weeks. It's pretty nice to be able to intimidate people
into making up asinine excuses.
I need food, and my head hurts. Hot dogs. And Aspirin. Mmmmmm. The Simpsons is the most brilliant show on television, and this worries me. Light up a full pipe of tobacco and relax, basking in idiocy. Falling asleep with the tv and the lights on isn't the most economical
thing i could do, but why get up? The narcotic of sleep yanks on my
eyelids until i give up fighting and die for a night.
Dave Dembinski
THE FORUM
Here's where the stuff you send me gets its due.
IN A CYBERSPACE ROOM
ONE OF US IS DYING & ONE OF US, BECAUSE OF IT, IS SMILING
ONE OF US MOPES AT EDGES OF REGRET & IMAGES OF ANN
ONE OF US DESPISES UNDERGROUND POETRY CHANTS
ONE OF US BELIEVES WRITING IS MIND MASTURBATION
ONE OF US DRINKS TOO MUCH & HATES SOBERNESS
ONE OF US IS A SHY 6 FOOT WORD WIZARD FROM PERU
ONE OF US IS HOLSTERED, ONE OF US CARRIES TWO SWITCH-BLADES
ONE OF US WANTS TO WEAR A DYNAMITE VEST TO CHURCH
ONE OF US IS NON-SUICIDAL & CONSIDERS MARY'S SMILE THE SLIT SMILE OF MONA
ONE OF US IS ANGRY PHILOSOPHIC FUTILITY IS PURE REASON
ONE OF US JUST WANTS TO GO HOME & WATCH SITCOMS & FART
ONE OF US IS YOU DREAMING A DREAM NOW
ONE OF US DOES NOT DANCE LIKE A NAKED ANEMONE OF ZEN
ONE OF US IS A LOUD, SILENT THOUGHT IN A HARD CHAIR
ONE OF US IS INSULTED YOU ENJOY THIS POEM
ONE OF US IS ITCHY THINKING ABOUT GRAY POWDER & GREEN WOOL
ONE OF US DOESN'T WANT TO BE AMONG LITERARY MONSTERS
ONE OF US IS NOT IMPRISONED WITHIN EGO PRISON PIT OF CUNT
ONE OF US GOT MARTIAN MOLECULES THRU OUR DNA STRANDS
ONE OF US HAS TRANSCENDED ZEN MAYAN FUSION WITH AMERICANISM
ONE OF US IS THE BEST POET SINCE WALLY WHITMAN
ONE OF US IS TIRED OF HAPPY POETS & SAD POETS
ONE OF US LIKES READING ROBERT HOWINGTON & BUKOWSKI
ONE OF US IS A MAJOR GERM CARRIER, VIRUS DISEASE ON TONGUE
ONE OF US IS DELUSION ONE OF US IS REPULSED ONE OF US IS A WAITRESS
ONE OF US IS SIPPING HALLUCINOGENIC TEA
ONE OF US MAKING MONEY OFF POETRY GRANTS & BLACKMAIL
ONE OF US IS CHECKING THE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS WHO SNARL AT EYE-CONTACT
ONE OF US DIGS BOBBY DARIN & BASEBALL STATISTICS
ONE OF US SMOKED THAI-STICK WITH TOM WAITS IN CHICAGO
ONE OF US IS A LOST GENERATION TRAVELER FROM THE MOON TITAN
ONE OF US HAS NEVER TRUSTED AN IRISHMAN
ONE OF US IS MORE PITTSBURGH THAN PITTSBURGH IS POSSIBLE
ONE OF US HAS WRITTEN A POEM ABOUT A PIRATE ON HIS DEATH-BED
ONE OF US FEELS APOCALYPSE BLOWING INSIDE THE BODY
ALL OF US ARE VESSELS FOR THE GHOST OF D.A. LEVY TO POUR INTO
ONE OF US IS A FEMINIST FLIRTING WITH FLATTERED MISOGYNISTS
ONE OF IS WONDERING WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE IN HUMAN HISTORY
ONE OF US IS FEELING LIKE WHISKEY IN THE NUDE
ONE OF US HAS DECIDED TO STOP READING & SIMPLY SMILE AT A WALL
ONE OF US IS A THEATRICAL ORGASM JETTING ACROSS THE AUDIENCE
ONE OF US IS A WALLFLOWER FEARING ALL THIS NOISE
ALL OF US ARE POETS, ALL OF US ARE CULPABLE VIRGINS, ALL OF US ARE
SPEAKING OUT
THE TIPS OF OUR COCOONS
Ron Androla
INTERVIEW WITH RON ANDROLA - part 1
Dave: Man, that was one hell of a poem. Not to flatter, but you are
one of the few poets that I can get. A lot of others (including myself)
use obscure references that you have to be Joseph to interpret (Biblical
reference right there). Not to say that your stuff is simplistic by any
means. It's just so starkly beat and true, and I love truth. Oh yeah, a
question. Uh...well, how did you come about this amazing style of yours?
Is it just how the voice speaks in your head? Did it always come this
way, or was it an evolution, as I'm guessing?
Ron: one of the main obstacles facing young writers is "finding one's
voice", & the only way to do that is to write over time -- unsure the word
evolution is right, but yes it is a part of the process, finding one's
voice as a poet.
"in a cyberspace room" i wrote a few years ago & me & lonnie sherman
(great erie poet NOT into the net) read it alternating lines at BRADY'S
CAFE in kent ohio for some reading. comes off good out loud too. hell,
make the glassian music for it, dave!! (philip glass, right?)
again, i think it's a good idea for young poets to imitate/emulate the
masters, dig for the voices, with the hope one's own unique voice will
blossom up thru the ground(ing). takes years.
glad you liked the poem.
i suspect i've always been a poet but i don't know why. arab genes?
italian genes? & i was a shy kid, so writing let me communicate,
safely. love did it. i started writing mushy love poems to a girl
named gail. i wanted sperm splashing but it wasn't anything like that
with gail -- i hadn't splashed sperm into/onto girls yet. writing
helped relieve the thrashing hormones i think. i just never stopped
writing. the only interesting thing for me at college was poetry --
that's who i was but didn't realize it in pittsburgh. partied heavy
near every day for 2 years. at franconia i did the same but i'd
realized i wanted to BE a poet/writer, tho i hadn't experienced much
about living as a human in time then. ann believed in me as a poet even
more than i did. when we split one of my impetuses was to prove (to
ann) i cld write, publish, & be cool: a sort of psychological secret: poems in magazines & books were like clues i hoped she'd find somehow somewhere. more to the complexity than complexity. when i started getting published it
felt like a drug, i got hooked. basically it's all simply personal
history & how this shy kid from ellport ever became this underground
poetry god of eternity. right. (to anyone:) you want to be a poet?
you want to be a writer? you want to be a painter? you want to be a
musician? whatever you want to be, you gotta do it & do it forever
non-stop for decades & decades. simple as that.
Dave: Well, since I'm young, and so are many of my readers, would you
tell us about the social climate in which you came of age as a poet, and
how it influenced your outlook?
Ron: the social climate was the late 60's, early 70's, which is pretty
infamous & well-documented & known. i was 15 i think when woodstock
(the original!) happened, & the youth of amerika were something magical
then. tho tribal, we were massive & the majority -- but it wasn't until
i went to college in '72 that i found poetry as my prime intellectual
communication of awareness. i was lucky to have a very hip creative
writing professor, dr. sam sipe, who sincerely reacted to my writing
with a sort of respect. the stuff was all dark & dangerous & wild
pandemonium imagery influenced by my discovery of the beats (somewhat) &
guys like william carlos williams, robert creeley, whitman, bly, w.s.
merwin...plus swinburne & greek tragedy, sylvia plath. i read NAKED
LUNCH by william burroughs in high-school, & that certainly tipped me
over. by college i was waking in the night with lines in my head & i'd
have to write the shit down. needless to say, college in 1972 was not
what college is today. rock music influenced everybody. i wanted to
write hendrix lyrics. anyways, the social climate of one's time is of
course important & relevant, but i don't think i really started writing
anything of significance until i got out of college (i switched from
point park in pittsburgh to franconia college in new hampshire since dr.
sipe set me down & sd listen ron you got talent as a writer why in the
hell are you a business major here? my poetry professor was bob
grenier. franconia was very avant-garde & revolutionary. grenier was
27. the college president was 30 & was actually on the johnny carson
show for being the youngest college president in amerika! franconia was
my impetus. i met poets like the language poet larry eigner, carried on
correspondences, imitated styles. like i sd, franconia was
hallucinatory. the coolest artistic kids in the mountains of new
hampshire...well, it was a time of sex drugs & rock & roll, & freedom.
i met ann there. grenier suggested i do an independent study program
for the practice of discipline ("a writer WRITES") & i ended up alone on
the island of corsica reading ezra pound & charles olson & old classics
& very much immersed myself in that & wrote thru the hours, just wrote
(typed) & wrote non-stop. it didn't matter WHAT i was writing. after
college tho it was the "real world" & driving a jitney in a factory -- &
THAT's when i became a writer/poet. i've never stopped. it's a
life-long process with rewards of karmic proportion such as my nephew
interviewing me in 1998 about this long strange trip of artistic
expression. yes dave, let it be known i'm 44. i've also been boxed in
factories for 20-some years, so what social climate existed was fairly
irrelevant except in the case of secret hipness & things like the murder
of lennon & the brutal ugly 1980's. it's a fact, one's environment
influences art, tho not necessarily. of course being utterly crazy with
the craziness of time helps no matter where we are or what the goddamn
media feeds us. nietzsche frees moral strictures. we might be absorbed
by "society", but it's ok to pull from it & damn it with intellect. or
revenge. just so we widen further than consumerist moldings of
people. watching tv is watching the innocent enemy! oh, & of course
there was the whole vietnam experience & nixon's shit. amerika was
splitting like the crust of some volcano, & these days are what was
spewed into the universe.
Dave: What do you feel is the future of the net? Will it continue as a
"Wild West" of sorts, or will it become homogenized and placid, as the
real West did over time? Or is this even a question anyone should be asking?
Ron: what i want the net to be & what it will be are no doubt different things. i've never been good with predicting the future: so many
variables & nuances of change exist it's akin to galactic serendipity
minus human physics. i don't think the web is now a "wild west" sort of
thing -- i wish it did shoot-em-up more. what i think will happen is
simply availability of enormous amounts of information on everything
human, more so than what even is now. earth's electric library. a
monumental, epic invention of & for mankind. but i cannot see into the
years ahead. i don't know what will happen but i seriously doubt
homogenized shit will occur as the norm. i do see it as a part of
everyday life like tv & radio & phone. i love the existence of the
internet. until they chop off my fingers & muzzle me i'll keep active
in it. let revolutions spin madly amidst ionic electrons!
Dave: You've been living with Ann, your self-described soul mate, for a few months now, after a separation of over 20 yrs. How have your feelings
for each other changed? By that I mean matured? transcended? since you've been so close.
Ron: now that we're together it feels very right. i can only say there IS magic & mystery in life, & human love is extremely powerful.
Dave: Where do you find the inspiration for your poetry? I know that my muse is fickle at best, and often times I have to kill a poem because it
just won't happen. How do you deal with this, or isn't it a problem for
you?
Ron: by now, dave, EVERYTHING is a capable poem: i'm probably always
inspired. there was a time i needed to write it all down, but as age
seeps over me i need the gentleness of letting poems go unwritten. no
sense for panic. ann definitely inspires me. so does work. so do you.
so does the sky & august moon & music. i used to call "the muse" MUDDA
MOOSE. she really didn't mind but sometimes i'd get slapped hard into
zombie-reality. one thing about poetry is its intrinsic being in every
object, thought, & dream of man. hell, an apple can be inspirational!
it don't depend on mudda moose exclusively. a writer writes. from my
view it seems best a young writer imitate the masters much like a
personal apprenticeship, with various attitudes & involvements of
course. read wallace stevens. read henry miller. kerouac. if you
read bukowski, beware! i think it became very vogue to write like
bukowski not too many years ago, but writing like bukowski is also a
natural way to write regardless what bukowski wrote, so it's a tricky
area. mostly the thing to do is work for yr own comfortable voice
where we can write with peace & a certain certainty. the old adage
"everything's already been sd" isn't true! breaking on thru to the
other side is an artist's goal. creation of language in new ways makes
us angelic demons, but not really: in my case writing is normalcy.
it's in me like blood. few men or women pursue careers as underground
poets longer than a couple years. i am most in love with the life-long
process, the long strange trip i record, or mirror. i don't suggest
anybody else follows the road. there are no rewards inasmuch amerika
defines reward. mental freedom is more precious than a million bucks.
& few poems can be killed, dave. let em fly away into oblivion. like i
sd, sometimes just the mere fact of exercising, of writing, is enough,
adds muscle & music in the brain. sometimes we find a fine phrase in a
shit poem, so then we can work from there. young poets must realize
there are some older poets out in the world who've been writing non-stop
for decades upon decades in wonderfully free obscurity! & ringo sd it:
"ya gotta pay yr dues if ya wanna sing the blues..." -- that be it. pay
& play!
THE PADDED ROOM
!!!Warning: The writers of these columns have severe emotional
difficulties. I can't control what they write. If I were to reprimand
them, the consequences could include verbal abuse, exposing themselves
for no apparent reason, and the sadistic mutilation of any small animals
present. I know this from harsh experience. Poor Scruffy...
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RANTING
This week's RANTING will concern the doctors of this great
country. In fact, it will also contain some bits of my mind toward the
doctor's biggest moneymaker, aside from plastic surgery. No, I don't
mean false prescriptions and kickbacks from the gov't to be one of those
9 out of 10 doctors who prefer Advil's new younger sibling, Provatil, the
drug that is injected into the penis when one overdoses on Viagra. Of
course, it doesn't work, and there is no such thing as an overdose of
Viagra, at least as far as horny chicks and guys with low self-esteem are
concerned. But none of this matters. What matters is the fact that a
visit to a doctor's office costs at least as much as a case of expensive
beer, and all the quack does is tell you that you're sick and that you
should call off of work for the next couple days until he can run some
tests, all of which cost more than Clinton's monthly Viagra stash. Oh,
Viagra, is there no end to the happiness that is brought about by your
mere existence? Of course, this does not apply to those doctors who are
in the Emergency Room. I give them some credit. However, some of the
ones a couple floors up like to fuck with the patients that come through
who are scared shitless because little Johnny happens to have a
temperature and is having trouble sleeping. Now, is it just me, or could
Johnny be sleepless because of all the scary movies the little tike has
been watching? And could he be a little warm due to the fact that Old
Mother Hubbard has him wearing sweaters in 70 degree weather because a
few mosquitoes bit him a while ago? (Editor's note: Dolomite speaks from
experience.) "What does the doctor do then?", you may be wondering.
Should he bitch-slap her for acting the imbecile that she is, or should
he prescribe many needless, and mostly harmful, drugs that amount to as
much as NASA's monthly stupidity bill...err, I mean, space exploration.
Of course, the horse's ass prescribes as many drugs as he can, because it
"sounds like the Tibetan flu that is going around." I don't blame him,
since we can't charge for stupidity yet. But, must he hide it so
horribly? And charge so very much for things that could "accidentally"
kill the poor little fool.? Yeah, that's right, it could be one big,
fucking conspiracy, or many little ones. Take your pick. Yes, true
believers, a conspiracy to separate the wheat from the chaff, the cream
from the crop, the good from the merely adequate, and, if you need
another cliche, well, you know which group you belong in. Of course, you
might not even get into that one, in which case I must say this: Take
another Tylenol, yeah, that's it, one of those gel-capped ones. Then
take a nice long nap.
Until next time faithful, and unfaithful, readers, this is
Dolomite, signing off. And remember this: Houseplants need to be
watered.
FROM VOCAB BOY, WITH LOVE
I was reading On The Road by Jack Kerouac for the second time (required reading for "human" status), and I had an epiphany. It's not all that uncommon to have one while reading that book, but this one was
deep. It concerned life and death and the order of both of those and
many more. Allow me to enlighten all of my dear, sweet readers.
All right. Life is a trip. A journey. A pilgrimage, if you will, to the holy city called Heaven. It's one hell of a long trip, too. For some. For others it ends before it starts. Some go through deserts, some go through forests, some just skip around in a land flowing with milk and honey, but they all have to get to the city. But they
can't. None of them. Cause when they get there, lo and behold, a chasm
encircles the city. This is an abyss. a canyon so deep and black and
wide and awful and you can't get over around under or through, so you
just scream. Death hears, and comes a-running. See, Death is the only
cat that can do something about that damned chasm. He looks at you,
straight into you, into your soul, via eye-contact or whatever else you
believe is the window to said soul, and he makes a decision about you.
You don't know what that decision is, but you find out soon enough,
because he grabs you, and either flies you straight over the pit and into
Heaven, where you do nothing but party with God and Buddha and Jesus
Christ, or he heaves your sorry ass into the abyss, where there's weeping
and gnashing of teeth. But the thing is, there's nothing you can do to
get to Heaven until you get to the pit first, and when you get to the
pit, you gotta look Death straight in the face. So, why do we pursue all
the religiosity? Why all the piety? Ain't a damned thing in this life
can be done to sway Death one way or the other, and that scares the
living shit out of us all. We want to be in control. We want to be able
to live a certain way and think, "Yeah. I'm doing all right. I can just
settle down here, and stop moving, and I won't get any closer to Heaven,
but Death won't come either." The problem is, Settling Down is nothing
but a truckstop on the road, and eventually they kick you out for not
paying.
So, what am I saying? That's for your own God to figure out, and I'll talk to mine, and meanwhile I'll keep on hitching rides with maniac still I get there.
Vocab Boy
GRAFFITI
I love letters. If anyone were to send one, this is where I would respond to it.
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THE TOWN SCREAMER
Something you want to tell the world? Buy a half hour on ABC. If there's anything that pertains to the writing community, though, this would be an appropriate place to put it.
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FIVE AND DIME
You can sell pretty much anything. Whether someone will buy it...