 You know, Jack too, he's just as well white, cool, and cold as a rose if he ever needed his love to be ever, before his introduction to the system. The idea for this poem came to me when I was taking my dog, Goldie, out to do his duty. It was one of those warm days when it was apparent that Winner's back was broken. March being March was as usual for herself, and that day was a harping and a spring. There were several more days of snow and blowing, but the end was near. I have rewritten the poem several times, and my experience is it will change me over time. That's pretty common. Former U.S. court lawyer Ted Kruser said that he rewrites a poem as many as 60 times. This poem is from an experience I had 70 years ago, and it can serve as a reminder of a time when childhood wasn't so regimented and hectic, titled Spring Fever. Mine's Miracle, a memory surfacing after decades, yet welcomed like a call from an old friend, not seen in years, prompted by a sunny day in early March, the Spring Fever Day. About a South Dakota farm town in the 40s, young boys carefree wanted the countryside at will. Warm in the sun, cool in the wind, a low field full of last season's grass flattened from winter snow, melted but for a lonely patch here and there. A small crack easily jumped cascaded from a culvert in the elevated road of joining, and flowing rapidly split the meadow, eroding clear ice, cleaning tenaciously the grass hanging from the banks. Next to the tiny stream, a sun-drenched knoll, its thick grass dried, enticed me to nestle in toasty water. My turns I fantasized figures in the cloud, played with flowers in my eyes, daydreamed and goals. Shadows lengthened, the waning sun dropped behind the golden cottonwoods. A chill breeze broke my reverie, and contempt I had at home. Nobody is next, or I should say somebody is greeting nobody. I haven't written in a really long time, but I was at Palau on Friday, and it kind of has to just come out of me. I don't really like force myself to write something. The great black holes, pulling in and spitting out. I find a black circle in the middle of your eyes in the middle of your being. They take me in and shoot me out, processing information, information of light lost in the night when nothing is known all around me. The voice of reason, of grounded reality, is written in gels of wind and rushing water. Shivering hope of the lonely seekers looking for something more than the ordinary. Going out and getting pulled in, into the fear of someone different, into the fear of inadequacy. This is self written poems. I don't have the title for it yet. I just decided to do this one in case maybe come. How can you say you're free? Entangled in their wires they've got you, us, all of us. They've got us. Networks of souls, tracks, counties, Facebooked and tweeted into their database and put on little plots of land to give up dreams. Dreams we all had. Do you remember younger days looking at a mountain group, looking at it climbing the sky itself and yearning to climb as it does? Not because you had to get to the top, but because standing on a giant shoulder you can see the world. My father took me fishing when I was a boy. We go to the lake and fly our boat through the crystalline reflection of the sky. Birds chirp, other sayings and we cast our lines. It wasn't to catch the biggest fish, but to sit in the midst of one of God's own pools. So you can enjoy the paintings that sit on his very wall. It's the same in the desert, the jungle, the tundras, the places we were put here to see. But we forgot, didn't we? We got lost in their scams and their hubs of progress so much like an ant farm that I can taste the dirt. We got lost in their streets and their one ways of dead air. We got lost so we did what you're told to do. We stayed apart. We built our shelters and spent our lives making fires that they used to burn us. They sent us to school so we could make our salary and waste our youth to help them produce. Off with the American dream. To stand out outside a plastic home and gaze out over your perfectly kept lawn. Okay. Alright. So that means next is Moose Merlin, the antique one. If I got the name right. Yes. Alright. This is... This one's for the translation. Hope works. Safari. The mirror marks the strokes of a poet. There's a wake of butterflies up to your gaze. A room. Candy fists. Crisp-cracked doodles. An eternal table. A scratch made of whispers that live for dominance. Patel Victoria Nance. A Julia. A Joan. Two kettle drums out of tune. Psychedelic color shampoo. A bay of red dolls in the rain trials. Three African tears. Screaming pajamas. The portrait of how I put them. A face down the road. A model letter for paranoia. Straight jacket strings. Handicapped bars. Cigars blown to them. The piece of peace. Urinated scripts. Inseminated hallways. Concrete curtains. Vibes. Did I say bells? I'm going to read a poem by Jerry Oliver. He's one of my favorite poets. And I'm going to dedicate this to a friend of mine, Judy Keeler. And she liked chocolate. A summer day. Who made the world? Who made the storm? And the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean. The one who spun herself out of the grass. The one who's eating sugar out of my hand. Who's moving her jaw back and forth instead of up and down. Who's gazing around with her enormous and complicated eye and how she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention. How to fall down into the grass. How to kneel down in the grass. How to be idle and blessed. How to stroll through the fields which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last in too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one vile and precious life? Lots of great poetry. And I'm going to tease you with some great poetry. And I guess he's worth the tech though. Next, is it Mark Neweller? Yeah. Great. Good evening. My name is Mark Neweller. I teach German studies at MCU and on the Farsend Arf. I also have a quick announcement for those of you who are interested in more poetry. I'm on an English department at MCU. I organize and host the first worldwide poetry festival on Thursday night at the Emerson and the Weaver Room. From 6 to 8 p.m. you will read poetry from all over the world. We have 19 different languages from Brazil to Uganda-Desh. And we read the poetry in the original language and then in translation. So please enjoy more poetry Thursday night. I've got some flyers there on the count of three. And because of that, I want to read some foreign poetry from my native language by a German Spanish poet. His name is Jose Eiffel Weaver. He was born in 1961 in the Black Forest, second generation immigrant in Germany. And he predominately writes in German. And because of that, I want to read it first and then in translation I'll read it. And he travels a lot and that's a poem from his trip to Lima in Peru. And he writes about this pleasure district there called Sona Rosa, which was a title of the town, so that's the German first. Sona Rosa. Parkour, Fliesen, Menschen, Flimmern, ins Lichternix gekämmt, die Mann Bilder kämmt dem Auge. Dein Wettler am Stock, Amolet, Moletta, die abhustende alte Reisesgründelweide der Häusersorgel, Gott segne sie, fünf Essos kostet ihr Satz. Der Hand aufs Herz schrieg national. Zirenen, Kaffees, ambulantes. Ein Mädchen springt mit traubig trigg, kaut im Auge und brot. Die Hand ist weltauf hingeschreckt, dem Dollar ringt auf. Okay, so now. Sona Rosa. Colour place, tiles, people flippen, come into the mix of lights like images that come to the eye. A beggar of cane, Amolet, Moletta, die abhustende alte Reisesgründelweide der Häusersorgel, die abhustende alte Reisesgründelweide der Häusersorgel, die Anzeugung von für's warm heart. It warms my heart to know someone cares no matter what he's always there. He loved us so much he sent his son who'd been with him for the world because Jesus was laid in a manger humble to save the world in a jungle. He grew up to be a man like him we should do the best we can. He died on a cross all alone. The people nearby heard Naria alone. He did this so we could gain heaven at last. That was God's plan from way in the past. But to do so we must first believe. That's the first step so that we might achieve. The second step is to confess our sins. That is the way to heaven begins. Repent and turn from your worldly ways then all will be happy the rest of your days. The last step is most important of all. Be immersed by baptism. Answer the call. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit you'll gain entrance into Christ's body with eternal merit. Then continue to obey God. Really really try. If you do you'll gain heaven up in the sky. It's called imagination. Staring at nothing, laughing like mad. Very happy and suddenly sad. Thinking of them, thinking of you. Imagining that they love you. Current at night, staring at stars. You stare there for many hours. Dancing alone under the moonlight. Imagining everything is alright. Staring at nothing outside the door. Then you see them and you start to soar. Flying with them, holding your hand and waiting to send and reach the light. Now you're alone and we're left yellowing hands and you hear the song in the wooden bedrooms. Imagining the stops and it feels so bad. So imagine again and laugh like mad. It's so great because that is our lift for the first half and it's 750 pulls. So we should take a break. There's some refreshments and cookies up here and we'll start again no later than saying 805. 805. Okay.