XV:3, Oct., 2000

A Journal for Linking Poets 


Stephen S. Engleman

Thelma Mariano

Alexis K. Rotella

Melissa Dixon

by José Juan Tablada
translated by 
Ty Hadman

Doris Horton Thurston 

Dave Bachelor  

Connie Meester

Elizabeth St Jacques

John Barlow

Carol Purington  

Kirsty Karkow  

David Clink

Inaba Kyoko
translated by Kawamura Hatsue

Michael Blaine  

Henry Bose

Marc Thompson 

William M. Ramsey

Donatella Cardillo-Young

Carl Brennan

Doug Bolling

Giovanni Malito

Elizabeth Howard

Jack Galmitz

Edward Baranosky

Yuhki Aya

Gary LeBel

Laura Maffei

Kam Holifield

Larry Kimmel 

Debi Bender

Dan Stryk 

Dan Stryk

Dan Stryk

Dan Stryk

Dan Stryk

Elizabeth St Jacques  

Shelia Murphy

Shelia Murphy

Shelia Murphy

Prayer For, Therefore
Shelia Murphy 

An Excuse for Milk
Shelia Murphy

Sheila Murphy

Connie Meester

Debra Woolard Bender

David Clink

William Houston

Clay Pots
by Ferris Gilli



in the mirror
faces behind faces
of all the people I am
and all the people
I am yet to be

deer in the field
I stop she stares
only her ears move…
then bounds into the aspens
deep breaths resounding

field of tall grasses
four swallows follow
along the trail
darting swooping
within inches of my heart

company coming
on our hands and knees
the bowl the tub

sunk in the easy chair
reading tanka
on a cool damp night
alive with a stiff breeze shaking
petals from the mock orange

Stephen S. Engleman


only a small cat
yet I envy the way
he saunters past
owning the grass
beneath his feet

trapped in their poses
in store display
I am so much more
than these roles I play

welcome mat
askew at the door
how I long
to straighten
our first impressions

only one
enchanted evening
to flit around
these bugs know how
to seize the moment

chilly day -
sparrows in communal bath
splash vigorously
every feather counts
in mating season

do they miss
their fleeting beauty?
pink blossoms
from a crabapple tree
beneath my feet

Thelma Mariano


So much depends on it -
the neighbor's
yellow wheelbarrow
right on
our property line.

Yanked out
by the lawn guy
in a minute -
the creeping thyme
I planted all week.

The mountains
where I grew up -
from here
they are violet
and shades of blue.

Again our neighbor
dries his
with a leaf blower -
5:45 a.m.

First week
in our new home -
we see only
the next door neighbor's

Behind the mirror
the dog looks
to see
where his
friend went.

The disappointed looks
from neighbors
when they find out
we don't
have kids.

Alexis K. Rotella

Melissa Dixon

under wide skies
the fenced woodlot
endless fields
flames of tiger lilies
leap the roadside ditch

children's dreams
surface from layered quilts
to the car's back seat
we peer through muddy windows
for purple crocuses

shimmering shapes
above the dark hills
northern lights
imagining I feel
magnetic fingers

small daisies
in the meadow where I walk
cling in clusters
in intimate empathy
I give them their space

violets hide
in the ground cover
first rendezvous
my hand warms itself
in your jacket pocket

prairie heat
tart taste of chokecherries
on our tongues
long ago but still at times
a tightness in my throat


by José Juan Tablada
José Juan Tablada was born in Mexico City, April 3, 1871 and died in New York, NY, August 2, 1945. 
translated by Ty Hadman

Woodland to woodland
passing over deep ravine
and river below
a ringdove loudly complains
to another responding

Under the spell
of celestial terror
delirious from
staring at a single star
the nightingale sings and sings

Without bitterness
this poet sings you a song
as you lead me by the hand
to my belt buckle bulging
oh fruits of my diet!

Frog, you saw it too,
the star that fell into your pool.
To me, a wish, and you?
The star we saw together
a diamond on your forehead!

It gives you grief
it brings back old memories
it puts you to sleep
a gentle balm of silver
the ivory cradle . . .

The New York express
detained for a few minutes
under a full moon . . .
Is the train going to whistle
at the lonely nightingales?

Oh gloomy critic,
without a doubt you can fish
but over there
your nets miss both the poet
and even the wide river!

The hummingbird
flies from flower to flower
buzzing and gleaming
like a shiny green stone
hurled from a slingshot!


Doris Horton Thurston 

halting speech
a brother whose busy mind
lives in a distant place
book of his poetry in his hands
his eyes say, "yes. . .yes".

seeking yesterday
we drive to the sand spit
where Dad dug clams
parents' old house now a shed
for new house - chimney still stands.

do you remember
the kindling in the woodshed?
. . .not all stovewood.
flowers on their gravestones -
wisdom blooms every day of my life.

throwing bread crumbs
silver shadow dart
circles in the water
clouds sink low with the sun
even the creek whispers goodbye.

* * *

old man
watching the cold rain
remembers his aching back
weight of newspapers
smell of wet wool


I watch
sparrows swimming
in warm summer dust
until it is time
to deliver my lecture


I watched my son die
can anyone
tell me
the meaning of life?

Dave Bachelor  


face to the sun, eyes closed
wind building ocean waves
a whistle behind me
then the train. I stand
caught between the roars


waves pull the full moon
to my feet, splash it
on the shore, curl it into itself
so broken
I have to look away

Connie Meester


chill wind
the delicate brown leaf
breaking from the tree
an urge to see
my old mother


winding trail . . .
even the lowly snail
leaves a little silver
i turn to analyze
my thin path

Elizabeth St Jacques  

turns to june ...
we climb common fell
and carve our names
on the cairn stones


that pasture
just there
in the winter sun

John Barlow


I have forgotten
the names of fallen blossoms,
migrant songbirds
Not every word you spoke to me
lingers in my mind


From my hilltop to yours -
a double arch
of luminous words
There was rain between us
but it has passed


You said farewell to me
with violets those years ago -
they withered
I didn't keep them
only their fragrance


I was angry with you
- or you with me, I forget -
and wouldn't share my tiger lilies
You always had the last word
stopped breathing


Swallows have swept
this summer's sky for the final time,
have left for their other lives
in another world
And I remember you


This summer gone
when the wood thrush pointed
its notes into dusk
and let them swirl away -
where was I that I did not hear?


Black-and-white cows
process from morning barn
to summer meadow
A child sings them along
- I the child mine the careless joy

Carol Purington  


strong wind ~
flowers and leaves turn
inside out
a door slams, and I welcome
my mother for a visit

Kirsty Karkow  


David Clink

Your shadow touches
me - an intimation
as I watch you
ride an avalanche of snow
tumbling toward a cold lake.

Cold water accepts
the company of lily-white
snow, trees and skiers
falling down a mountain
into its ice-blue crypt.

A raven swiftly
leaves the oncoming tumult -
stark against the snow:
wings lift up a fragile soul
from under a wintry grave.

Inaba Kyoko
translation Kawamura Hatsue

ikubaku no
saigetsu usete
kanashiki toki mo
honoka ni warau
ware to shi omou

how much
time has passed
and sorrow too
yet faintly smiling
I think about that


hito de aru
ki de aru koto no
guuzen no
kuukan ni furu
hanabira no ame

to be a person
or even a tree
falling through space
a rain of petals

kanashimi te
same iru yami wo
karigane wa
mi no yami wo mote
wake te yuku ran

in sadness
waking in the darkness
a wild goose
with a body of darkness
probably pushes through


yagate shi ga
seki hedate n ni
booshitsu no
toki ari hito wa
ikite wakaruru

soon to die
and to be separated
in the forgetfulness
of the moment there exists
a living person alienated

mizu oke ni
suberi ochi taru
kan no ika
inochi naki mono
wa tada ni kakoo su

into a water pail
the squid has slipped
into mid-winter
such a lifeless thing
simply falls down

* * *

yellow horizon
catches the trees on fire -
geese pass overhead
to a nearby open field
of cornstalks waiting unturned

Michael Blaine  


with a swell
the vent at the bottom
bigger, then still bigger
a quiet night at
the city pool

standing in
this slant of light
the water coming out
the shower head
has a slope to it

all night long
back and forth
the bartender's cutoffs
three pink pencils
in a side pocket

going outside with
tea in a paper cup
at the end of the tea bag string
a green paper square
lifts in the breeze

weaving down
the tree-lined street
a bright yellow taxi
its back seat crowded
with balloons

Henry Bose


rain-streaked tombstones
fill the crooked churchyard
Monday morning
the road to the village
through mist-enshrouded trees


a mourning dove
stands softly by the window
an hour past sunrise
I breathe in the rhythm
of your beating heart


a hundred miles south
of the wildlife preserve
wild turkeys
gather at the lakeside
in the heat of the summer


cranberry relish
stains the linen tablecloth
on Thanksgiving Day
a man wearing garbage bags
carries bundles through the rain

Marc Thompson 


a gnat's smudge
on my forearm -
the smallest death
i have known this year
but typical


in bloody times
this is the peaceful news:
on a water pipe
in a vacant basement
dust built up

William M. Ramsey  


The full moon
spreads its whiteness
over the prison walk -
visitor and inmate
share its light

Donatella Cardillo-Young


Carl Brennan

The grave nightmare
bending over her pillow
withdraws, defeated
Between her deep snow-white breasts
a little gold cross gleaming*

Dusk in her bedroom
baring her throat
at the Master's entrance
she releases the small hand
of her doll on the bedspread **

Early summer's blood
another century's pride
Desire meets Death
the light through her parasol
irresistible: find her ***

*Jenny Hanley in Scars of Dracula (1970)
** Veronica Carlson in Dracula Has Risen from the Grave (1968)
*** Yutte Stensgaard in Lust for a Vampire (1970)


Doug Bolling

Water lilies sleep
fat bass dreaming of supper
old man whispering
to the turtles of himself
it is almost time to swim

Wild duck roasting now
steam bargaining with the light
no flies anywhere
special friends arriving soon
where did the sky go today?

May lie in her tomb
beneath the November earth,
words barely breathing
in this stone-knocked lean valley
mist, the mountain very big.

From this high mountain
the words are flying away
like birds of autumn
at last my sore mouth can close,
little value being lost.

Love thrives in moonlight,
awkward sun hiding in shame
our words dying
our shadows sleeping now
on the tall grass knowing.

* * *

on the table
between us
two empty cups
shreds of paper
irregular shadows


my dreams
cold as ice cubes
lose their hard edges
as they dissolve
in this tumbler of bourbon


in the silence
of a damp forest
there is nothing
I want to add
so I stop still


scores of goldfinches
dart about the meadow
in a spring madrigal
and all the nearby graves
sprout tall flowers

Giovanni Malito


outdoor restaurant
in an Andean cloud forest
only flashes
of iridescent birds
in the treetops


balance of light -
through the west window
a carmine sun;
through the east window
a pearl moon

Elizabeth Howard


Water spills down
The shell of the horseshoe crab
As the tide goes out;
In the seaweed and the sand
There's a ring that couldn't be found

Jack Galmitz


Edward Baranosky

Power failure -
The gentle flow of candles
Invokes fireflies
Dancing with memories
Inside a mushroom circle.

Thunder collapses
Tunnels of luminous steam.
Flowering lightning
Crackles deep in mute wood;
Torrents stream out of the darkness.

My short breath pipes
To the rising of the moon -
Water over ice,
Bobbing beyond the meadow,
The blank face of a mime.

Casting my shadow
Into the surf-driven spindrift,
I reel in the dawn.
An early morning breeze stirs
Shimmering tidal pool

A drifter pauses,
Whistling an old love song
From forgotten wars,
When lovers separated
memories from anticipation.


Yuhki Aya

leaving the home
which sheltered me
I go by blue train
a sleeping-car
into dark night

overcast sky
gray shadowy ship
around the dark cape
was it a dream?

in the folklore museum
the dead rise
with essence of reality

four wall clocks
reminiscent of people
long ago
each showing
a different time

returning from a trip
as if crossing the line
between two ocean currents
I pushed the door,
my ordinary life


Gary LeBel

kneeling in an emerald sea,
I taste in the water
the spice of my origin
but the tongue has no voice
the soul can hear

gulls far from sight
blow a sadness
in my ears
as the echoes of their cries
become the colors in the pale shells

in the white sea-foam
is the fragrance
of Gaea's first breath
and all I will ever know
of endlessness

with an eyeless clock
the ocean's measure
a great whale's undulation,
in timeless days that fall
within an eon's hollow reckoning

spirals and curves -
its burnished rings
are the whelk's temple
where being's geometry
makes no straight lines


Laura Maffei

Having missed the train
this bitterly cold day
I rip off
layers of outerwear
in a childish tantrum.

Flipping the pages
of a swimsuit catalogue
these women's bodies
so drastically unlike mine
they could be aliens.

by unnecessary word
my coworker
pare down her resume.

to our favorite foreign show
on TV
our steady attention
demanded by subtitles.

Lifting my spirits
in the supermarket -
treating myself
to the seasonal pastries
of someone else's religion.

* * *

i place
a blossoming basil sprig
in her folded hands
as she lies
in the viewing room

Kam Holifield


Larry Kimmel 

I could not believe death's estate so virginal, here in the heart of town. Not a track, not a trace – whiter than marble, this snow-sheet covering the dearly departed, and in one corner of the churchyard, an obelisk. And there, too (white within white), your name. Though I stood transfixed, my wild heart banged in its cage, sending the hot blood screaming cold through its corridors, for I was momentarily alive in a dead universe.

in snow
and stony silence
her name
but not her name
graven in granite



Debi Bender

old fields' beds, russet, cream and maize,   cover them gently, white fog dreams,

lift slowly, sun, your misty head, 
hold low your gold over distant trees,

mute morning spirits, drifting, leave
my hilltop house in shadowed sleep.


brightLy SHARP! miD-DayLight souNDS t h i n cLarity EternaL bLue

kiDs' voices riSE s.t.a.c.a.t.t.o. tO uns-yn-copa-teD city noise,

yeLLow baLL oF c h A n c e iS toSSed, good forTune? ? unDetermineD.


Royal azaleas, orchid-pink,
nod softly, silk of babies' skin;

Vulnerable, so helpless ­
rude hands hold you, crushed and broken.

Korea's child, before they bloom,
your northern buds fall dying.


when evening skies streak with gray, sweet-grass air falls still and cool

daydreams with cicada trills rise and peak then quickly fade

your voice returns again, for a moment, your face, too


Dan Stryk 

My boy's cruel joy, the flicker of
their fear & pain. Yet memory
of my own youth - Japan, Midwest -
steeped in flickering summer nights,
their smell like grassy wine ...


Dan Stryk

Life/Death. The ebbing swell & pall of
joy & sorrow. I sit in it with coffee
after mowing, in the ruby glow of dogwood
richly fading, on the stoop of our
still house on a warm evening.


Dan Stryk

I listened, disembodied,
to the cry, midair,
that came out of myself,
& knew - beneath it
all - I was a beast.


Dan Stryk

However splint-skulled, pea-
brained & absurd the skittish
collie may be, it excites
man, infinitely, to know
he's planned its breed.


Dan Stryk

after 37 years . . .

Cockney London, '61 -- "darin'-leap-do'n-stairs" game 
with my flame-haired rascal friend ... 
Shock of shinbone shattering! His blurry father pressing fingers into numbness, whispering "brav' lad" in faint tones.
Alive again, this damp October night: Virginia, '98.

Elizabeth St Jacques  

Snowbirds land with a soft whir
and melt into the white landscape;
snow trembles now like merriment
when suddenly a flash of flight.
How like men, these small snowbirds,
that touch briefly, fly off too soon.

- (SIJO WEST, Winter 1997 - with a slight revision)


in my mind my paintbrush works to capture nature perfectly
the twilight mountain tinted mauve brilliant light through maple leaves
but darn - the paintbrush in my hand works best displacing daily dust


After her loud frantic cries, Mama squirrel's long silence,
then off she goes to face the sun when ravens leave with their small meals.
Could I be just half as strong when a loved one of mine is lost?


Sheila Murphy

Who wants to own an old Corvair? Rust unlearns beauty of ruse. It's my show, learn to go with it on time to match the spark in Reverend Sequel's eye. Each champion I know plows minefields in the charter yard. The more I represent you, the less I have resembled anyone on purpose. To have tried means to have parked in someone else's zone. Someone anonymous is tracking  prints throughout interior of hopeless house. One churlish husband says a prayer. That holds us quiet for the nonce. Whatever supposition has been posed, it crosses boundaries that were black and white in time to have these separated colors put back in. 

Marmalade on toast points, chevrons right and left, capacity of signaling to capture our detention

Sheila Murphy

The freshest faced oblique new reverie went south. She took a pill, earth took to crumbling. Nearby parents felt the invocation of her promised empathy. Perhaps once favorite fractions would be realized before the fragrance dawned. All language moves like a gazelle. As trembling hastens our devised consent, the raptures of a white sky drape those fears to which we frequently succumb. At the school called "La Lumiere," the boy wore dark blue. She watched the freshness leave him. Leave her frequently alone.

Antiquity, a frame for it, new thoughts of recommended flowers


Sheila Murphy

Sunglasses make fine sequel music when a glass half seen is called just full. I tap. I pray for light. I single out a person to have loved. Then shine elapses after thought has frayed some of the shadows from these barely moving branches. Sight unseen, the few sections of art impact the natural color of the eye. Remembered as discrete small swatches from a cloth I used to pride myself on smoothing from the line. New work is clean. Elections offer faltering at half-mast. Maybe soon some filter will be free again, exact.

Birthday of the father, a monsoon, surprising interruptive sunlight


Prayer For, Therefore
Sheila Murphy 

Sharp sills on windows leave a little shape free to have varied. My textbook clasp of elements leads random neighbors to drift past and be remembered. One is next to blond. One alleviates presumed pain felt by another. I am singing while I single out an arbitrary past for her, for him, for me. Which one of us in circularity gives drams of fever back to the collective caritas? I'm guessing white becomes a slip that simulates a color to have painted. When am I not braced for this freedom drawn within strict confines of a failed repast. She shepherds me along my Saturn foil. Watch any number of presumptive versions of a private moonlight hasten the demise of something heretofore unnoticed. This is why I take the clock out of a baby's hands and put the thing away. If justice is command, then I move usually free form in my merchant levying for the good of order.

Saturation point of fact, in glacier follicles, one more reason not to trade our forecast


An Excuse for Milk
Sheila Murphy

In all of this economy, there are no glands. Desire for tea is really something other than the lecherous draw, caffeine . . . that grows into a need for bed rest strapped to slavery. Once removed from alter ego, one became polite. That is to say heroic from the look of arch replies to long, drawn questions mounted on a field. What have you been noticing from where you say you are? Rotational montage is all the rage. Whoever told her so was rapt with creased long laproscopic torque. A virtue equal to any old used dart board recently consigned to a meticulous biographer. Why was the famous man so friendly? His very mood bore the stench of primacy recency. Making its way through crowds, one lemon at a time. How is it to be loved while having no intention of reciprocating?

Vanity that travels at the speed these migratory birds in mind decay


Sheila Murphy

That said, I have diversified my love into a garden that replies. My energetic vision sacrifices other chemistry. Watch how stones grow large when felt in mind. If any integer is holy, let us find and polish it. Let us warm our hands again. The drift of what was given back in conversation widened temple after temperate induction of the verb. And so a shell left plain and tangible voracion where the stalling roamed. If any indication lingers, it is more than I have asked. As every activation signals, I am wrongfully discharged liked red flares changing how the traffic lights go fairly and entreatingly into the horsehair colored  night. My very blinders let me view the weeds, and they are beautiful again as three-part vaticans. Erase what I have said until I get there to behold your hands. 

Venture capital, pure fingers without jewelry, a leaf about to fall

Connie Meester

You found my journal, the discarded one. I see you have it there. Does that mean you read it? All of it? Well, if you did that, you must believe that you know me now. What I think. . . feel. . . caught in time, anchored to a flat bound page. So you found the poetry I did not give to you. Did you know that memory sleeps in a still pen? Well, then. . . you found the words. . . lying there. . . split one from the other.

propping my pen
behind my ear to hear
all she says
and all
she does not say

(My Love - listen. Did you hear what she said to him? Did you once write poetry for me? Then discard it? What did the lost lines say? When your back was against the wall, did your silent words dream a new story? Maybe a bridge between us? When did you ever write wickedly? You know: put wick to fire, paper to pen, ignite memory. Listen now. . . do you hear?)

after her wake
he places her journal
in the embers
waiting now for sparks
to die between them


Debra Woolard Bender

Going to church, I follow the usual streets. I have missed the first day of a class I'd planned to attend before the worship celebration. Up in plenty of time, I've frittered away too much of the morning before realizing it. On the way I watch the world around me, looking for something to speak to my heart, asking a revelation to ponder.

sunday morning
two pigeons flutter upward
and two beggars chat
in this open shelter
i first see pairs of wings

Cars slow for the traffic light ahead. Mine stops in the underpass where a flash of white feathers catches my attention. The light is bright outside, but not in here. Wondering, I turn my head to observe more closely two people on the inside walkway.

unkempt, homeless
both in wheelchairs
morning shadows
rumbles shake the air
around their hidden words

Sitting behind the cement pilings, the women are deep in conversation. They seem oblivious to the stream of cars, which has started to move again, slowly. Glancing up at the pair of birds, I notice that they have found a niche in the supports, opposite and high above the women. The beams vibrate with the weight and movement overhead, but the birds remain, unruffled.

little sparrow
flitting from place to place
why don't you rest?
this hunger in my heart!
i'm yearning to fly


David Clink

I draw the curtain and kill the glare of the full moon -
Wiping it from your mind like the memory of an assault.

It is always the same for you each time it happens.
The Princess kissing the toad. The Prince kissing the Princess.

Hollywood heroes are always sprouting fully grown
From the mouth of your projector.

It is dark and it is time to escape
As swallowed stories of time hold back the darkness

And I was glad when I broke through the walls of your castle
When I said, "Kiss me. Take me. So I may wake everlasting."

But that was a warm yesterday swept beneath a rising mat.
It is autumn now, and we sit with idle hands on crooked furniture -

And I have thought of pulling you from the big screen
By leading an army to reclaim you.

The cold light in your house reveals secrets
As we watch the sweat of a generation come alive, engulfing us.


William Houston

I have felt the instant fear before the earth quakes
but never heard the cracking of pavement, rubble falling, cries

All those heroes of the Trojan War that weren't killed
had some interesting problems getting home.

We had dinner in front of the window; mother cried
and I comforted her with more strength than I owned

This afternoon I found my mind entirely clear.
I lay down on the red sofa and soon felt like a puddle.

There are two short, fat rubber bands lying on the table
just waiting to get their hands on some free spirit.

Will you be willing, Willy, to paint your body blue
and stand on the edge of the moor in the moonlight?


Clay Pots
by Ferris Gilli

hillside meadow
a backpacker lingers
with the day

the mare's soft whinny
leading a foal

Mayday parade
all the little girls
in patent leather

company coming
rag rugs on polished floors

masquerade ball
peg-legged pirates
dance in moonlight

buried in clay pots
this year's acorn stash

navy beans simmering
through the long night
a shutter bangs

port of call
a doxy shares the bed

the bride blushes
revealing her body
swirls of steam

forgotten anniversary
doors barred from the inside

dusting souvenirs
with a far-away look
that Sixties photo

backyard fireworks
smoke hangs in a tree

bats prowling
beneath a pale moon
glint of barbed wire

trout on a string
so soon the rainbow fades

noon hangover
shriveled olives
in the soap dish

X-rated comic
every other word bleeped

vows of friendship
on the cherry-blossom path
distant laughter

cheating on tax returns
the coffee's bitter taste

sudden gale
striped butterflies
cling to the vine

ebb tide
slow erosion takes the dunes

going steady
again Dad forks over
gas money

green bower's shade
a hunt for erogenous zones

snow-bound honeymoon
she hides the Kamasutra
in a coal bucket

a cough that's faked
to avoid math homework

rock-climbing practice
decorator Band-Aids
on skinned knuckles

saloon brawl
tattooed barmaid kicks butt

gum wrappers
filling each ashtray
toothpicks chewed to pulp

tucked in her cleavage
a scarf she folds just so

cracked car mirror
two harvest moons
follow the road

he shades his eyes
to watch departing swallows

postman delivers
in time for state fair
the boar's satin bow

long sweet breaths
of fresh cedar sawdust

all these craft books
that were never used
faded print

grandpa's rusty plow
good for another season

the tiny snaps
of a mole breaking roots
first pear blossoms

hometown weekend
dibs on the porch swing

Started March 30, 1999 - Finished June 2, 1999


  Submission Procedures 

Who We Are

Deadline for next issue is Jan. 1, 2001.

  Poems Copyright © by Designated Authors 2000.
Page Copyright ©Jane Reichhold 2000.

Table of Contents for this issue.

Find out more about Renga, Sijo, Tanka, Ghazal
Check out the previous issue of LYNX XV-2 June, 2000