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****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
I am pleased to present to you  the first  virtual  copy  of  inter\face,
a magazine  published  at  the  University  at  Albany as  an  efforto to
provide  an open "forum" for the publication and distribution of creative
work.  inter\face  is  a  private  venture,  and we are open to comments,
suggestions,  and submissions.  E-Mail to  bh4781@albnyvms  via bitnet or
bh4781@rachel.albany.edu via the internet.  ****  We hope you enjoy this.
Please forward, mail, print, send and/or distribute this document freely.
****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************

Nancy Dunlop

with doors the woods would not
be woods where they end
not always knowing
the knocking the interlocked

a question is
permission a soft
field cricket
under your finger
locking across your palm

edged by corn stalk sounds
in wind i am you
cricket singing
the lock of us
wielding (song) too solid
to fully compass
a rock
permitting entry to pressure
moss on its smooth
surface no branches

she is confused when she is
that small cricket her legs
rubbing not knowing
beyond grass stalks or what
makes green
heat or day light
a smooth surface
to press against (like) a rock
with no fissures to rest
in she is out
in blue air under the sun she is afraid
(to call attention) and yet


she is double-natured wanting solid
in a green field soft
(as)  grass filtered through wind

(to call attention) and yet


she is double-natured wanting solid
in a green field soft
(as) grass filtered through wind

(above written with Sam Turner and Charles



--an invocation to the

Your screen is a stretch of beach. Words are
shell-fragments, crunching under the hammer of
your fingers.

* * *

Your screen is the night-time woods, your hands
small animals foraging in the brush.

* * *

Your screen is still water.  A school of fish
effervesce its glassy depths.

* * *

Your keys are the bones of a thousand dead. Your
fingers are souls dancing happily upon them.

* * *

Your screen is the inner curve of a skull, the
capsules of stored sensations propel themselves
within its amber caverns.

* * *
Your screen is an open plain. Numberless wild
horses thunder out of the hills toward your face.

* * *

Your screen is thickening smoke. Your fingers are
flames lapping the smouldering keys.

* * *

Your screen is a rib cage, and you are the heart
beating and echoing within its chamber.

* * *

Your screen is a holy temple, your hands the
worshippers at its portals.

* * *

Your screen is an open sky over a field. You are a
kestrel cutting through it on sharpened wings, and
its prey panicked in the grass below.

* * *

Your screen is the eye of heaven. Angels scale its
margins. Their wings sweep against the keys like
beatitudes. You are one of their company.

* * *





Eros Rising

tell me again how we met, rows
of brownstones, boxes, a tracking of wires
in smoulder-light. you are my
musec. i want
to give you postcards, a small
pair of party gloves. a scarf. a scroll. this ring
                                          of keys.
take my hand, isis-drop
part my poor seas. tonight
there it all was, spilled
like treasure from the envelope.
               the singer i know
opens his mouth. when the angels
hear his song, they stop
their dancing. dance for all my lilies.
how did we meet again?
you are sky sounds.  imprint
of wings flapping ground level
who are you today?
it's as if the whole world
were his thigh and i could just
clasp it. tongue my way over
its surface. it's cream
for this parched throat.
it's delicious and unfurls me
in hillocks and smooth streams. careening. ow. ow.
it readies me for its own taking.


Stefano Resta

The Procession

Slap-lizzard tattoo neck in the opening rose!
These palms are psychic and the lines that streak
across them are nothing but human.  Metallic
strips of leather becomes the singular feather, a
simple fetish, in contemporary American heritage.
March, marching, movement in D major somewhat
allegria...the Procession!   Shopping carts,
pioneers, expansionists, gold-diggers, and
metaphors.  Then the chiggers, and the blue lines
on yellow paper.  Trot, gallup, doorbell.  Souls
chained by the sea.  The procession commences!
Step one, step two, step three.  Three step
waterfalls on Willett Street!  The silver flash in
New York and step one, overlooking apartments.
Always the flash.  Procession of fires.


Hooks and Cylinders

I have been thinking about hooks and cylinders and
Hat Creek skepticism, but nothing could repair the
chronological order.  The word "Seduction" is an
attempt to answer the contemporaries; the
hierarchy of Isis and Poseidon (and later Neptune)
all demand a seaport.  So it becomes unfortunate
that most anglers have a detrimental effect upon
the stream, a great experience like a fragment of
a song.  At any rate, money is interesting.  The
splendor of stretched sunlight in the afternoon
rather impressive rather Spanish, Andalusian in
the rosemary and basil.  You may ask:  is there
any original nostalgia?  Help restore the
holiness!  Self-defense through creativity from a
small, persistent canvas.  I have been thinking
about hooks and cylinders and impressions from the
underwater angels.  Wild river through high red
canyons and thousands of buzzards, circling.


Palms in the Texture of Wind

Palms in the texture of wind, a domus, home, or
interesting book of poems and 3:00 a.m., the talk
completely still; or am I to be refused in the
process of grief?  The arrows come wearily in
order to equal the great depressions.  Power then,
whether you be a goddess or tread on a branch in
the grove.  A truly whole humanity, jaguar
exulting in victory, the highlands blazing, white
hair drying up.  This shapes complicated
demarcations and suppressed memory.  Lucky to have
suffered the wounds, groaning in unrecognized
devotion.  O blood sheltering tree, the sun has
fallen and the shores pronounce a specific hue of
green and the leaves have frozen to stone.  Allay
the mango, the totem.  My pocket is filled with
plans so to meet would suggest language dressed
completely in memoirs or memories, simply
deceptive.  Besides, this is merely personal, a
chaotic variation of form deciphered by the
morning light.  This was an Egyptian statue and
the passage now is loaded with common faults.


The Moon-Room

To mention something simple:  saffron or abysmally
approaching twilight, one or two artists hope
there is a foundation of Truth.  Damn it all!  The
mood spoiled into sensual flowers, fixed,
obsessive; or love incarnated resembling that
Mendocino Coast or that similar important
struggle.  Transparencies belong to the river, the
body only in part a river:  in part fire flesh
bone voice.  My heart is all stained with
blackberries.  Random insecurities; imperfections
gleam.  Tromos, or a sudden trembling.  The tides
rise and below us wide stingrays forage.  My
selective desire is to be standing in a slate of
rain or flanked by waves.  Simplicity has gotten
all tangled up in vitreous perceptions.  My hands
wish your mysterious mouth to body, Eros ablaze,
the moon-room ablaze, your clitoris molten lava.
The ceremony grows green, fills the air as the
daughters are changed into vines though it sounds
past belief.  All night long the sea absorbs
ghosts and sings in discordant harmonies.


People (self?)

People (self?) out of touch with time or meteor
showers after the moon in October.  Animal.  Cold
under the maples; leaves burning red through a
crisp air.  A return to splitting wood and tugging
our donkey through the soccer field.  Flight in
the sun of lavender robes.  The difficulty is in
the hurry.  The bark of a dog.  If I walk with you
on this beach sand, will the columns of rock fall?
Where is the monastery?  The light is covered in
footsteps.  But we were speaking of Canada, and
Oregon, where the rock of columns stand.  And one
of the seven streams.  How long, how meditative
must it disturb, or a Buddha on a photo.  The holy
men are out in force beneath a blazing sky.  And
the rock-fish has bloody gills from the jabs of
spear.  I always seem to return to a similar
place, out place, out of touch with time.  Flash.


Benjamin Henry

My Sister's House

I sit on the couch in my
sister's living room and realize:
she is still six years older than me,
weaned from my parents earlier,
some mistakes they'll never make again

my mother thinks as
she plans my future and
asks me what I want to do
with my life and what will
make me happy and all the responsibilities
I have to make and pay for
and plan for and look forward to

                What lies ahead of tomorrow
in a society I alienate myself from
I know because it tries so damn hard
to take me in and make me happy
and rich but all I can see
is ambivalence and ignorance and I know
that they are just words and

I make myself unhappy
with these thoughts that come from
who knows where, maybe something
bad from the Bible or that
Rock Music dope dealing Pink Floyd
kids that will ruin this country
and everything it is and stands for
our children to grow up and appreciate
is all ruined because these damn kids

go out and look and see
what is really there,
even though our every day
practiced have a nice days,
now who could beat that?
Even the glorious technology,
a gift from the brilliant minds
of Our Generation put to waste
by troublemakers and perverts and MTV --

long-haired lunatics taking up too
much time between Our commercials
that clearly show them how life
should really be, let's forget
the pornography of Christ in Piss
and homosexuality and marijuana
because we know it's wrong --
how can we call that art
when America is really Norman Rockwell,
-- I know it's true it was
never that way when I was young.

A college kid on state
I sleep in a bunked bed
and look out a window
at carefully manicured lawns
and stone fences and rows
of cars and buildings being
built and potholes in roads
fixed and a recycled garbage

Is this America, I ask;
it must be it says on the map
and the tv that sits in the corner:
I watched Dan Rather for five years
every night he told me America
was something else, like
Miami Vice and Tom Sellek
with guns and sports cars
racing in paradise.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

The window glow yellow from streetlamps
casting shadowed squares on her
glass coffee table;
I fall asleep
in my sister's foreign home.


repeated the salesman

"I will believe you!"                   apologetically



numerical order
is the way they go
sorted into the social
meandering vs.

the totalitarian!

(he's back)

                hiding behind his pillow shoes
                moved to show emotion
                wavering under all cost

                ingesting a steady diet of gelatin/


                melting way in the fabric pot,
                migration south for the mean-time,
                leaving behind the Greyhound station

(through a portal)

he sees

dry land

a vision

counteracted by none

I am lost in the iron-ore,







Katie Yates

Dark far thought Clasps Daisy root in response to
terror of terror unseen alone & not habitual how
to build Wither drowsy from the outset seen of
night: thought Terror built of child structure
such as the purpose:  to do.  The children learn
that sorrow that mathematics of utter generality
and common knowledge e.g. lyric vocabulary of
"perishability" that one carries far.  Hither.
Drowsy.  Not repeatable, World falsehood.  I do
not believe - having explored the question e.g.
breakdown the structure terror of earth end
unseen.  Just Night Vigil.  Such as one's
singular.  End unseen.  In the rhyme of  how one
must live the first question alone in the shelter
of bees.  This may be the time.  Where she
addresses world deeply at odds in a letter to
Andrew.  Susan West.  Pattern in sleep.  Not
repeatable.  One learns falsehood, knowledge,
massacre blind.  DESTINY.  Is practically nil.  Is
talent & frenzy.  Formal catastrophe.  Menacing
question.  Rhyme or their anarchist forms.  Or
moral thought.  This may be the Time for the
perishability of ancient beauty, of Nature.
Formal memory.  Nil purpose to Ancient Beauty.
Flint.  Intact fury.  Is literacy.  Carrying a
banner of Truth in the pattern of History.

What do you know asleap?  Am welcome drifting to
operate mystery computers.  Pierce how to live as
a bride Oh welcome repetition of requirements of
my Seagray ~


Carved out of a monotheistic god.
              distant sorcerer
             dim 99aC ^miracle or
hissing together bent on itself, bent
to the Northwind bent to where she
turns into seagray phase shift perhaps
cancerous obedience shall approach
love     eros    even more hissing
pausing to repress and countless father
can sacrifice northwind proud
      secrets hissing to gather
           in exploitation
       "how to die" how together?
how lyric how manifest how poison how hid how to
access knowledge in this desire to land mobile
compensation gesture of the jongleur to expound
or are we just speaking in High Middle habits
this having to run home this afternoon this squall
the whole idea of another genius be/side you
managing to hold night pastures seem hostile to
occupy their dichotomies as the proper ambition is
to sit hour out - The Rules of the Disciple even
the murmuria for her sake & others for life itself
deemed balanced the species ego wheat straws out
of so awkward to love faceStone face reaching into
it trying to pull apart the efficacy


        So knell to their own ends
drowned dust prospective attatched
to conventionality.  On the open
telling Self resurrection and Anti-self.
Such a comparison - alone and alone smile statue
was mostly double talk by academic wing flapping
bright ship Bright drown-ed ship.  Mirror for
Nature for sake her.  Studied, he showeth so much
of my face Stone like a woman accursed, accused in
the Fall.  Remembering attackers. Keepeth us
rebelling.  Divide.  Conventionally.  Sun
alightingso awkward her sentence  Alone and haste
to calme the Word.  Lost work in pastoral freedom
and strawboy.  From all the evil.  Old uneven
sunbite.  Fair my head.  "Exile."  Like magic.
See the Nightingale.  Lie no accident.  Vague
revolt.  Round the fire.  Lie. Elopement of hills.
Himself to the object.  Going (sometime both)
(mummer)  This experience of bed down the birds.
Ensnare & scatter the ravens.  Shivering.
A gain into empty interior.  Himself eaten by
poet.  Creator.  Downwoods.  Held on to craft.
Vague north in one's mouth.  Three times is
murder.  Thrown.  Sometime indignant.
Scattering streams of written.  Traces.  Of
necessity.  Woods.  Never complete.  Nameless
threshold.  Nameless sleep.  Making of.  Scatter.
Records of Conquerors.  Inward.  Of course a raw
non-place.  The pure signification.  Secret of
half of my face.  In excess of the technology
which depends upon the moral fathers.  The watery
ebb of pure knowledge.  Of  high virtue itself.
Shell.   Fragment of Liquidation introduce
Aesthetics.  A raw, beautiful case of  Stella.  No
longer.  The humble Angel of proposed marriage.
Attributed to beautiful phrases.  Exchanged.
Frozen in the spiritual.  Illegitimate.  As for
Patrick's bird.
        Will be k unable to fly after
                Accurate.  Yes.  If he be willing.
        The Most Fascinating freedom.
                We study the murmuring.  Skepticism.
       Churchyard of criticism
                Mouth of river
                    Famine wisdom.
                        Inlet task
 Liberties unperceived.  Language with treachery.


 ^ this is a part of my response to D. Byrd's
Manifesto: Culture War mediated through S. Howe's
poem Defenestration of Prague

Inter\face is:

*Inter\face 3 is a publication of
poetry, what we take that to be in
relationship to our investment in
the fact that the word is not so
much written down now as it is down
loaded or it exists momentarily
between cursors late in the night's
impermanent cybermind.(ky)

*Cyberspace has been termed a new
"frontier" by many, a new space that
needs to be explored and mapped. We
offer a collection of perspectives
on this viewpoint, a way to look at
the net, at life, incorporating
technology and humanity.

*i am in my new sweater.  i am at a
keyboard.  sometimes this small
corpus imprisons sometimes offers
new rooms.  the screen to me is a
room.  a series of quiet
conversations late at nite or early
a.m.  sometimes it becomes easier to
read screen words than book words.
to watch them float toward you from
ephermeral agitation.(nd)

*We're not anti-intellectual.
*We do promote:  the letter press,
the etching, the lithograph (old) &
laborious (body) printing processes
*We have to acknowledge the
limitations of thoughts so finely
stored in their (material) casings
that they don't make it out into the
late twentieth century.
*I want to talk ie. there is a place
to talk - seemingly an a crest of
"spontaneous prosody" that is much in
the keeping with a tradition of
lyrical poetry which seeks to define,
to glorify, to tell, to heighten,
to worship, to soothe, to pray,
to gather the strength we have
left to care - gather in the words ---

*Words, language, data stream: we
encounter these things daily, accept
them or reject them. This is an
offering, a contribution, a step
toward our ever-changing, temporary
definition. We encompass and gather
and collect to present. (bh)

*we are seeing new meanings course
from curser light.  we are learning
each day to speak in this new
vision-voice. (nd)

****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************
Thank you for reading the first virtual copy of inter\face, a magazine
published at the University at Albany as an effort to provide an open
"forum" for the publication and distribution of creative work.
inter\face is a private venture and we are open to comments,
suggestions, and submissions. E-Mail to bh4781@albnyvms via bitnet or
bh4781@rachel.albany.edu via the internet. We hope you enjoyed this.
****************************INTER\FACE 3*********************************