Volume 3 of the book series that is voicing the realities of the generation born 1960 to 1982. Song lyrics, poetry, essays and short stories. A generation telling it like it really is, "in its own words".
This series now includes 440 voices from more than 40 countries. Songwriters, recording artists, poets, journalists, academics, individuals from all walks of life, the person next door, the one that works with you. Every hue of the rainbow. All the complexities and nuances that make up a most interesting generation.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
When I initiated this book series with "In Our Own Words: Generation X Poetry", I had no clue about what would follow. Since then, there has been a steady flow of emails and letters, some just thank you's for publishing this series, but thousands of others submissions. From a generation that wants the "true story" to be told, their story, the realities of their world. A generation that feels itself grossly manipulated and stereotyped by the media and marketing powers.
It is doubtful this will be the last volume. More and more are discovering this series, inspiring us to develop an extensive website, and webring. My feelings are - "let this generation speak!" A generation that has much to say. A generation that is capable of expressing itself with disarming honesty.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
New Years The 20th century wanes like an October moon
Pitted with halos
We will worship people and places
Movements and manifestoes,
But all of the best poets, lovers, and prophets
Have slipped into the obscurity of a faded letter
An heirloom or faded photograph Is wheat of lesser quality
If it is not consumed on the open market
Would God be less of a God without a people
This is my letter to the 20th century
That never wrote to me
I send you to the realms of documentaries and history books
I am thankful that all of the wonderful moments
Of our lives are nowhere to be found in their pages
We are just another white spot on the margin of time's guestbook Joel Pace
Eau Claire WI, USA I've Lost My Misdirection I remember when I was 16. I used to look at all of the older people, people who gave up on their dreams, people who quit rebelling, people who'd resigned to the daily drudgery of work-a-day life, and I used to SWEAR and PROMISE an oath stating that I would never give in!! I would never stop rebelling; my dream would be realized because I would keep pursuing it, never succumbing to the American MACHINE! I had a cause. I had a passion. I was smarter than everyone. Never, ever, under any circumstances would I stop being 16. Mine was the job of grabbing the world by the balls and giving it a good healthy yank. "Wake up, world! Open your third eye and let the enlightenment dilate your mind!" Despite how intelligent I thought I was, it never occurred to me that it was extremely improbable that I was more intelligent than 4 billion people, most of whom had seen much more of the world and life than I had. I was so sure I had the solution...to something. I was SO sure, that I could totally understand why teens never listen to anyone. I wish I had the same confidence today. It's interesting to see the difference between then and now...less than ten years. I experienced and consciously observed the loss of my rebellious ideologies, a conversion that took four or five years, from larva to adult. I can remember, rather clearly, points of confusion, in which I knew that I was supposed to rebel against The Man, The Establishment, or something, but...but...the responsible, freedom-crushing route just seemed to make so much damned sense that I wasn't sure of what to do. Now, I have completely shed my old exoskeleton and it has blown away in the wind. I go to work everyday, pay my rent and bills, watch television and wish that the neighbor's kids wouldn't make so much noise. I've given up on my dreams. I've resigned to the daily drudgery of work-a-day life. I've given in. I've quit rebelling. Just like everyone else. Sometimes, I try to rekindle the old me. "Down with The Man," I snicker as I pencil a dirty poem onto a public bathroom wall. Tee hee. "Don't oppress me," I whisper as the cop walks by me with a profiling glance. Grrr. "You can't contain the truly free," I whimper as I enter data into the computer in the cubicle in the building where I'm employed. Sniff. Jason Katzwinkel Hinsdale, IL, USA Star She’s a one size fits all kind of a chick.
skinning their eyes to a raw optic nerve
a live white chord of lust. She squirms in their bodies
like a chunky parasite
weaving in caulks of skin and tongue.
They store her in a trunk of organs in embroidered membranes of fluid
where she spends her nights eating spiders
and stroking her soft, lean vaseline flesh. Jayne Fenton Keane
Tallai, Queensland, Australia The people of this city The people of this city
are flowers behind bars they don't know
that behind their backs
there are no walls the people of this city
Jews Moslems and Christians
carry the burden of history upon their shoulders the people of this city
haven't heard the news
Pharaoh is dead the people of this city are convinced
that life is death the people of this city are condemned
to a death sentence:
Thou shalt live. Moshe Benarroch
Jerusalem, Israel Rain is the echo of God’s grammar
From which we see only commas Tuti Almaty, Kazakhstan
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Book Description Mw Enterprises, 2001. Paperback. Book Condition: New. Never used!. Bookseller Inventory # P110965413640