last year I was reading On The Nameways by Cool Clarkidge (The Figures 2000: I have a lot of books from The Figures) and was compelled to write a poem after each that I read. I managed some 20 till, I would guess, I just thought I was repeating myself. Clarkio prefaced by saying he had no more to give. then these poems (Nameways, that is) appear, and all's right with the world. it's a good smoke to inhale, just to think: oh rats. I haven't read thru the poems I wrote, but think they may be okay, and I'll type them out and display them. because. I had a habit for quite a while to write in a notebook just before I went to sleep. I figure my defenses are down a little at that time. the downside is that I often haven't the energy to last long. still it piles up. I have a ridiculous ton of notebooks filled with such scribblings that I never look at, nary once. it's not like the world's missing something, tho world you could lament the potential loss if you'd like. I guess it's the training miles one puts in. and hey, that writing will be of interest 700 years from now when literary excavators will be looking for clues on ANYONE (my son's vision, by the way, is much simpler, as he believes such studies will be carried on by folk who simply step thru wormholes to the appropriate point in time, if the phrase 'point in time' can possibly have any meaning withal). anyhoo, just thought I'd give CC a mench. saw him read at Franconia, at which time his work was strangeville to me, but I appreciated the syncopated rhythm of his reading.