All that Jazz

ALL THAT JAZZ!

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I wrapped up my original post on "Jamming with "Ballad of the Green
Sky" after John (Frost) picked up on line-stacking and the idea that
lines
don't exist until we make them by playing line-breaks, and stack them.
The whole tune's a string (line sounds awful rigid), weaving, wobbly,
and it's discrete, not continuous unless you play for blur.... So, you
make segments by playing line-breaks. Line breaks have to do with
everything, things you call form and sense, image and sound, the works.
Your instrument, sometimes horn, sometimes keyboard, is language....
Anyway, John unwound a line, played a couple line-breaks,
s, a
notation I borrow from html, and didn't play an extra one that's in his
middle segment that some day I'll talk about, about how Shakespeare gets
a couple characters talking inside a single five beat iambic line, which
brings up a useful "rule",

conceptualize rather than calculate your line-breaks,

...but for now, John set out a haiku

two frogs sit and sing
to stars on the plant the dark
green sky of tadpoles

I brought in some "imaginary playmates", just like I brought in the Old
Formalist, when I was poking around inside a haiku of Kits' a long time
ago (first time). Clari, Trump, and Saxo, oh, and a guy without a name
polishing glasses at the bar in the empty club. And they blew a lot of
riffs. After one of Clari's, Trump says, "Okay, you got in the last
gig." and Clari, says, "No, man, it was all of us and John, too,
remember, he blew one just before we got here. So, here's all of us,

I hear fourteen frogs
squatting and singing up dark
green sky filling ears

...which counts two frogs from each riff, including John's original
tune. Clari, clear sound, really clean finger work on the keys. Almost
like the second
ain't there, and it's the big one to get what
everybody thinks of as the big juxta...pos...ition. Does it with
stresses. Y'see, up, dark, green, sky and fill are all stressed. So, if
you're a listening reader, and a good one even subvocalizes when
reading uietly in the library, you can't get "dark green", with either
emphasis. You can't get it at all. You just can't get it. Read those
monosyllabic words and you've got to break between dark and green.
To ave "dark green", you've got to stress one or the other, select the
shade OR select the color, you're making comparisons underneath. You've
got to know that much about what you're doing when you write language.
So, it's "singing up dark" AND "green sky filling ears". So, you've got
to play the poem.

ANYWAY, I'M WRITING THIS POST
BECAUSE OF WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.

John came back, and it's a new gig. And it's a wild riff. He's playing
those
s, AND the other white-space, or white-noise, punctuation....

lily pad
sky
tadpoles swimming

in the dark
lily pad
platform
frogs croaking
knee deep in starlight


John's playing off that left margin like the game was handball, and he's
still riffing on that original line, only he's busted lose from the
two-
"beat". And anybody who thinks playing the instrument and
knowing that's what you're doing, playing sensemes and phonemes, can't
kick you into something a reader might remember when he or she has
turned the page,

knee deep in starlight

is worth reflecting on....

And Mugsy "reflected" on it.

"knee-deep .knee-deep"
a frog song
to tadpoles
swimming in the ancient light
of star shine


...and she uses quotes to do what? in the playing, she plays
"knee-deep" as his, but repeats it, inside the quotes, inside John's
voice, his instrument, what did anybody tell you about that in grammar
class, eh? For poetry, literacy isn't sufficient. The difference between
phones (sounds) in phonetics and phonemics? The sound is a semantic
critter. It has meaning....

So, what do you think, after

knee deep in starlight

you get

swimming in the ancient light
of star shine

...and it ain't over, folks, because about the same time Ana (I didn't
see a last name and only a cryptic email address, was writing,

one
green
frog

jumped

sky fell

star ponds

fronds

swayed

into
silver essence

moonbeams

whispered


(Hi, thanks for the welcome,
Ana)

...and the whole darned poem look-sounds like a frond, or a star fall,
and seeing and hearing are all interwoven, in

moonbeams

whispered


Well, anyway, that's it, all in one place, and the lesson in that is
that you might want to re-run any conversation here with cut and paste
and fill-in, even if you're not going to post it or back-channel to the
people involved. just like writing poems in your head and not writing
them down c'n let 'em get kind of dreamy, so can re-running a
conversation. But just making notes or cutting and filing the text c'n
become mechanical. Thing is write and cut and paste-in and push around
pieces. Hell, file it as your MOAPG (or other) "diary" and keep it in
your eDen..

And, if sometimes some of the "feedback" wasn't being an appreciative,
maybe even useful, "audience" and was "jamming", a conversation where
you play something the way the person posted it did and then you play a
passage a little differently, showing not talking about, your sketched
"suggestion" (or, better, suggesture) ...well, it might take on some of
the life we see above. Look at how the bouncing off birthed things? And
look at how all that associative wealth "in the air", "in the room",
keeps hovering, promising more...,

Gene

Crows Day: Taking two looks

     Here's take two renamed, and reshaped , literally, thanks
to Judy's discerning eye and the feedback of moapg
contributors.  I've included the original at the bottom so
that you might compare.

Best,
Stephen


CROW’S DAY

They know we’re here

I hoot
imitating the owl heard in the dark
to chase the crows
in the backyard

They  hunch in their black winged splendor
carrion eaters
calling to each other like some
dark game of marco polo

  Earlier
              two hawks pass in the trees
       perching for a moment outside my window
I ponder their identity as predators
large as  bowling pins
                                      silent as a dream

             I do not know their names
but they are warriors

Later
a solitary hawk
flutters through the sky
         attacking and fleeing
                                        a clatter of crows
        social eaters of the dead.

Now
for the third evening in a row
two large crows sit on a tall tree
overlooking the garden
cawing
reedy
loud
clear as a nightmare

the crows see me cup my hands to my mouth
calling the night-stalker owls
to kill them as they sleep
and rob their nests in the dark

Their sharp high calls return my call
like a bully's taunt
a call and response
of threat and defiance

The two crows watch
unmoving,
until I carry the sound
of the owl under their tree
where they cannot see me

then there is the wet black flap of silent flight

I look up and see their dark bodies fall for a moment
before rising on the invisible sea of air.

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

They Know We're Here

I hoot
imitating the owl heard in the dark
to chase the crows
in the backyard

They  hunch in their black winged splendor
carrion eaters of despair
calling to each other like some
dark game of marco polo

Earlier two hawks passed in the trees
perching for a moment outside my window
I pondered their identity as predators
large as  bowling pins
silent as a dream
I do not know their names
but they are warriors

Later a solitary hawk
flutters through the sky above the trees
in rapid flight
the killer bird bobs and weaves
attacking as it flees
the crows
social eaters of the dead.

Now, for the third evening in a row
two large crows sit on a tall tree
overlooking the garden where I am standing

Cawing reedy loud clear as a nightmare
the crows see me cup  my hands to my mouth
calling the night-stalker owls
to kill them as they sleep
and rob their nests in the dark

Their sharp high calls return
my call
like a bully's taunt
a call and response
of threat and defiance

The two crows watch, unmoving,
until I carry the sound
of the owl under their tree
where they cannot see me
then there is the wet black flap of silent flight

I look up and see their dark bodies fall for a moment
before rising on the invisible sea of air.

Play is the work of children and poets

Twice this week, I’ve been presented with short poems  centered on the  page, and twice this week I’ve had  to say that  I liked the poems.  But I had to wonder if I’d sing them that way…so I  jammed on one in a sort of Creeley style riff (which, depending on your email handler or browser you may not be able to see/hear properly):
 

                                  a tapeworm     living
                
                       in the middle     of
 
                                             my
                                             mind
                                         spits
                                         out         these
                                                      lines
                                            as
                                    it
                               
                                                     devours
                                           my life


        Good stuff.  Fun to jam with.  I liked the fact that you kicked off the restrictions and PLAYED.  There’s a reason why people who are making things happen  are called “players.”  Somebody said (I don’t recall who off the top of my head) that play is the work of children.  It’s also the work of artists.  Good stuff.
 
Best,
Stephen

From: motherofallpoetrygroups@yahoogroups.com [mailto:motherofallpoetrygroups@yahoogroups.com] On Behalf Of Zen
Sent: Thursday, November 10, 2005 8:12 AM
To: motherofallpoetrygroups@yahoogroups.com
Subject: Mother of All Poetry Groups Short Dozen: of moths & shrimp & afternoons
 
Hi, haven't posted here in awhile and decided to get active again.

I did a whole series of these what I might call segmented poems back in 2004 and am in the process of some edits on them.  I find the form fun to work with.  I took the zen poetry/haiku idea, kicked off the restrictions of an actual haiku, and strung them together as insight nuggets of a particular day or experience.

I was intrigued in my readings of Issa, Basho and others that by reading a series of their short poems, each individual poem was intensified.  I hoped this would happen with these.  I arbitrarily picked a dozen as the number used but it could be any number.

For me, these poems came out of the meditative spaces within the day.

Zen



Short Dozen: of moths & shrimp & afternoons


i.

It's as if I have
a tapeworm living
in the middle
of my mind

& it spits out
these lines
as it
devours my life


ii.

red petals
litter the ground
as if flowers
had blood


iii.

I spend hours
with my paintbrush

making love
to lilies & sunrise

to orange petals
& palm trees

mirrored
in blue


iv.

this richness
of the moment
engulfs me

as I gag
with wanting


v.

I know
how a moth feels
when it circles
a flame

every muscle taut
unable to resist
blood plunging

drenched
with light
with taste
with desire


vi.

there is too much here
in this moment
for stillness

too many feet dancing
& voices singing
too many warm breaths
& guitars melting the air

& I'm plucked
like a thread
in a spider's web
grabbing for the day


vii.

I have a picture
of you
in my head

subject to revision
of course

as my shutter
is only half open


viii.

when reading
your words
I hear your voice
run thru my ears

I become both
radio & receiver

I long to hear you
without the
interference of me


ix.

outer storms
shadow the day

throw down darkness
like a gauntlet

my soul stumbles
over embedded clouds
it has no name for



x.

dead litchis
lie on the plate

with their
soft flesh
promising life

in sugared syrup


xi.

how can you
promise me

it will be all right
when I can see
the blanket
you throw over
your own fears


xii.

I must be
the ruler
of shrimp
for all that
I've eaten

do they quote me
under the sea?



© Zen Oleary
revised November 2005




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Re: Mother of All Poetry Groups Re: Rhyme and its reasons...

From: smorse@sigafoos.net
Subject: Re: Mother of All Poetry Groups Re: Rhyme and its reasons...


A long time ago, I pondered Robert Frost's comment that "free"
(freely played) verse was akin to playing tennis without a net.

Funny thing about me quoting him is that I have always thought he was
just being a cranky wise guy when he said things like that. But, he
was, of course revealing with a smart remark the truth about how he
wrote poetry. He needed lines to hold him in, or structures to build
his tones on. Frost was revealing that secret that some poets try to
hide, even from themselves, that he really didn't know what he was
going to say, but at least with structure, he knew how he was going say
it. My so called american sonnets are like that. I start with end
rimes, the need for 14 lines and 10 syllables in each, and then let
fly, see where the words take me. I, like Frost, usually have a tone,
a feeling in my head, maybe even a specific image-event in mind. But
it's about as far away as starting from a thesis sentence as I could
possibly get. If I had to know what I was going to say in a poem
before I said it, then I wouldn't be able to do it.

The other way for me, other than form, to move that flow is to start
with the senses, a specific experience, remembered or right in front of
me, just telling what I "see" there, much as I explored the cover of
your book. There, the images are the structure for the sounds and
tones of the word. Every sensory experience has the makings of an
essay in different tones. I'm giving away too many secrets I fear.
Whatever's on your mind can change the perception. Your poem with its
stones on the beach is a good example of that, the way you use it to
illustrate whatever it is that you need to illustrate. The poem is the
blackboard.




Best,
Stephen


On Jan 8, 2005, at 8:24 PM, April Corioso wrote:


I was following the talk on rhyme (or rime, rind) and sitting
alone in my glass archive, visible from anywhere on the globe,
as dusk ended and night set in. I was thinking of whole
rhyme *schemes*..., and how they are the rocks the waves
break upon and, their individual syllables caught up in the waves,
the crests of the breaking ...breakers. I was thinking of the
sea-surge power in rhyme in our kits, in "the makings" (poetics)
we use....

A long time ago, I pondered Robert Frost's comment that "free"
(freely played) verse was akin to playing tennis without a net.
One day our great grandchildren will do that, you know. But
education has to do some catching up. Think of the
perceptual acuity everybody involved would have to have
and the currently-thought *inhuman* integrity. Anyway,
I thought of the dark thread in Frost (and, no, I'm not
confusing him with Stephen King, and of other net-like things
and schemes and tried my hand...

on tennis
for R.F.

Giddy ap, giddy ap, old horse!
You, who used to ride the side of night,
Who tore out your flanks on branches of wild gorse,
Who turned maids to windy screams of fright,
Giddy ap! Giddy ap, old mare!
Oh, and hold down now, some more
Field, then the oats, and not a scare
Left in you; heavy shoulders sore,
I reckon, old horse; so, giddy ap!
Say, you hear the night coming on?
The trees wailing? The house shutters flap?
Old times galloping by on the run?
I'd pull the halter off, Dark Roan,
But you'd go, and I'd be left alone.


I always thought Frost's New England woods weren't
far from those of the Grimm boys....

This was a long time ago. I'm too old to profit much from
corrective feedback, but young enough that corrective
feed-forward just might get juices flowing....

You c'n use rhyme more powerfully to bind yourself to
somebody whose language and sentiments you'd otherwise
probe at. Take the William! Remember "darling buds of
May"? A language of accountants, a temperate lover,
and, finally, these lines...

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Poor lover! You've already one foot in it, lass or lad....
It's a chunk of my mind/eye coordination that'll give
you what "after-life" you'll have. It's a fact, of course,
that he couldn't promise anything more than that, and
that was chancy, but that isn't the way to talk, or to
think and imagine to a lover.... So I dragged up
William's sonnet scheme, rocks and crests and all,
and wrote this to Hilary (Ayer, my companion from
63 to 70)...


for Hilary

Shall I compare you to a summer day?
You have more colors and more spirit:
Your laugh is trickier than summer winds at play.
Summer will buckle and end, we won't fear it.
I've seen you hotter than the sun and golden
And raging crouched flesh in thunderclouds.
Your breathing sings summer myths of olden
Times; all the summers gather in crowds.
The summers are not lost, nor will this one be.
You will wrinkle and gray, when winter
Comes, grow youthful in the spring for me
And young and fair in summer, a sun's splinter.
All the years I can breathe, or turn in time,
In each of them you are summer and rhyme.


The sea-surge power of rhyme isn't because you have, if
you have, a large and nuanced vocabulary. Uh, uh, it comes
from your opening to your cognitive innards to allow what
you'd call your search "engine" to travel out ahead. If
you think you know what you're going to end up writing
before you write it ...well, you're failing to "take off the halter"
or play without a net (which is easier in a scheme than out
of any)....

Moral: Your rhyme will have as much power as the fun you
have picking up and riding its waves....

Gene

Gene Fowler
(April of ret. @ddress is m' wyf)
acorioso@earthlink.net
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Jammin with poetry

Gene (Fowler) writes...
Post: Last + 2

Anybody who's interested in a sort of gathering up (I never *sum* up, or
get any final thing) of my bouncing off the idea of a "three line" poem
as a form and the "substituted" idea of a "two line-break" poem, the
line-break,
, being an event, a sort of super-phoneme, and a rich
sense of how line-breaks communicate making it useful ...c'n read the
gather. I've put a copy on my site. No visible link there, but you can
use this link to pull it into your browser. Use View Source to get a
copy if you want one for your eDen (I used to call it a personal
elibrary): http://home.earthlink.net/~acorioso/JammingBalladGreenSky.htm

It's the jam session on "Ballad of the Green Sky" and it's wrapped up
in a letter to the Juice Squad I sent along thinking it might fit in
Juice 2005 eletters. I'll put it up before I mail this to Mother Poetry.
And I'll leave it for a week, ten days, til I remember it's there (I'm
pressing my space limit).

I've seen a scatter of mentions of line-breaks in the on-going talk, and
I l;ike that better than direct responses because it means the
s are
looking like tools.... You know, your *poetics* shouldn't be a hatful of
definitions, rules, traditions. It should, better, be tools useful when
you build, or play, a poem....

I'm writing this post, though, for a different reason. Stephen riffed on
a poem of Brad's. I thought, "Hey, that's kind of interesting." And I
waited to see what'd come of it. See if doing something like that might
spread out. Blowing a full riff, of course, is one thing, maybe just a
loosening up. What it might lead to, though, is sitting down with
somebody whose poem you're feedbacking (jeeze that's an ugly idea)
on, and, pulling up the keyboard, try playing the passage ...just a
little differently. Playin' with the passage and, in passing posts back
and forth, taking turns on the keys.

Winnie posted a poem. In the first two stanzas, she left out "the" a
couple times. She was obviously doing something, working for some feel
of what she was playing. Mugsy, on whom the effect didn't work, asked
about those "the"s. Winnie said she'd try putting them in and see how
she felt about it. Not how the two ways of playing felt. Just a
reaction. Anyway, nothing further developed. I played the passages. Both
ways. I launched with those "the"s in, and the fragmenting she wanted
hadn't taken, anyway, so, after going back, I stuck with "the"s in. Even
without 'em, she needed binding, and the rhythms (semantic, not just
sound) needed a "playing" (crazy, given where I'm using the example)
after "tongue" (there, that'll send everybody back hunting the poem).

What might Winnie have done, saying she'd try it? Play the passages
both ways in a post, do a little thinking together at the keyboard.
Mugsy might even have played the passages with those "the"s in.
Playing on the keyboard and not commenting from outside as audience
or critic (who's professional audience, I guess). Handing a passage
back and forth.

WELL, IT'S SCARY, I KNOW. So my point here is to remind that a riff,
such as Stephen did, such as the jazz guys do, IS A READING, NOT A
(RE)WRITING. The original poem just ain't touched unless whoever wrote
it takes some of these readings, playings, back into a new publishing of
the poem....

Here's Billy Evans talking about playing Tuxedo Junction one night.
Tuxedo Junction, later, was just like Tuxedo Junction before....

"One night we were playing 'Tuxedo Junction' and for some reason I got
inspired and put in a little blues thing. 'Tuxedo Junction' is in Bb,
and I put in a little Db, D, F thing in the right hand. It was such a
thrill. It sounded right and good, and it wasn't written, and I had done
it. The idea of doing something in music that somebody hadn't thought of
opened a whole new world to me."

Something else follows from the playing being a reading, from trying
out an idea instead of describing it or only suggesting a corner of it
or that it might be hovering.... Everybody involved gets used to being
"inside" poems. I've been saying, in millions of words of letter and in
articles, even in the poems, for almost half a century that a poet has
a fourth job. The first three are easy: entertain, inform and transform.
The last one sounds like it's about as far as you c'n go. It starts with
moving a reader. And to the extent that the elasticity isn't perfect, a
little of the shift remains, and maybe it c'n be cumulative. The fourth
job? Well, you take the poet in any reader with you through the making,
because it's all there the whole time. And if that poet following you
adds a little blues thing in the right hand?

Gene

Gene Fowler

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Singing together as poets

From: acorioso@earthlink.net
Subject: "sing with me" - A NEW USE
Date: October 29, 2005 5:27:01 PM CDT
To: smorsepluggy@yahoo.com
Cc: acorioso@losmedanos.edu, jbrekke@sigafoos.net, quailhill@direcway.com

Stephen,

Nuthin' much new seems to come in from anybody on your playing with
Brad's poem. And even first responses seemed to be "grasshoppers"
leaping at any distraction, so I thought, maybe, you could pull them up
to the table, and at the same time, offer some reassurance that what you
were doing wasn't a new writing of the poem, but was a reading. That's
what the jamming is. The musicians don't rewrite the tune they start
from, nobody writes down an arrangement. They just riff on it....

What I've done below is pull up the two "sing with me" letters (both,
for me, reasonably short) and left you space to pull everybody back to
your moving Brad's poem around. Say you're putting together these two
(of several) Juice Squad letters to hold tight to one riff. And go from
there, still above the two. I've rewritten them just a bit - so this one
to you, whether or not you back-channel into MOAPG, will go in the
"line stacking" folio. If you do, I'll grab your note from the digest
and
insert it....

You c'n dream up a Subject line that'll hook or stay with "sing with
me". In short, I just put a couple rounds in your cylinder. Remember,
you're fighting, now, to make making poems, even reading poems, fun.
Never let 'em push you back to where it's work.... Mugsy and April
will appreciate that the coyote suit (Mugsy found the picture of it and
it's on our three computers) is back...,

Gene


-----------------------------------------------
[ Your note ]

From: Gene Fowler
To: Stephen@Yahoo ; Judy Brekke ; Mugsy
Sent: Thursday, October 27, 2005 1:52 PM
Subject: "sing with me"


Stephen,

Okay,

Okay, I still had the last digest. So, whoever was talking about
"singing vibes" or "music vibes" or whatever was coming off what
you said while picking up your instrument,

Let me try singing with it a bit.

So, play,

Let me try playing with it, aye bit...,

or

Let me try moving it around a little...,

because,

you show 'em a tattoo they've heard of, like "sing", and they'll flay
you and nail your hide up on the wall. You've gotta put on your
coyote suit and trick 'em into going along...,

Gene


If you drink with me
You will understand me now
Secrets between us.

Let me try singing with it a bit:

If you
drink
with me
you
will
understand me

now

secrets between us

andor

no-
w secrets between us

Ah well, just playing, Brad.

That's all. Maybe you'll get a response you c'n get responses
you can hang some talk on about what you were doing, about
how you were playing Brad's poem, how you were reading
the poem...,

Gene


From: Ghost Shaman
To: Stephen@Yahoo ; Judy Brekke ; Mugsy
Sent: Friday, October 28, 2005 8:53 AM
Subject: "sing with me" - part ii


Stephen, Judy, Mugsy,

Let's figure, Stephen, you said, "Let me move it around a little...",

If you
drink
with me
you
will
understand me

now

secrets between us

andor

no-
w secrets between us

Ah well, just playing, Brad


It's still the poem, not a song.That doesn't take any sorting out or
sweating over definitions. More importantly, it's not a rewriting of the
original, it's a reading of the original. This is why I talk of music
(to get the movement) and musicians (or actors) to get a sense of a
performer, a reader into the works. Not a writer taking over anything,
but a reader. And an exploratory reading....

Why'd I call "sing' a tattoo? Because it's written down in your email,
but it'd still be a tattoo, in what I was saying, if you left it on
voice-mail. Anybody who's learned to write down musical scores will,
hearing music, kind of background-see "scoring" and anybody who's
learned how to (any variant) write, will background-see writing on
hearing and layers of it on reading.

You c'n think of pre-fab stuff as tattoos. It's just an image I used
because Mugsy and I had kicked around tattoos, and my fifth shaman
song, in another conversation here. In the paragraph above I figured out
how the image worked, a letter after my using it. that's how you catch
your imagination working and loosen up to where you can move it
around as you're saying it.

The poem c'n be, instead of being a string, a rubber band and, written,
c'n snap back from a reading written down... So there's Brad's poem.
Changed by the reading? Well, not for somebody who didn't hear that
reading, except that, maybe, something was "brought out" that's a
resonance for some other readers who aren't "bopping" it...,


now

secrets between us

andor

no-
w secrets between us


That split up "now" into "no- / w" forces know into the air.... So,
"now" still links to "understand me", following out of it, and "secrets
between us" follows and there's still the ambiguity because the secrets
can separate or bind, because of the understanding and the "placing" of
the "now", in both the writing and the reading. Then, you back up over
the passage "...now / secrets between us", play it again, and force out
the "know", the "no" and it's folded into the "now". Nothing there, or
the understood there, the binding. All the layers.

Let it snap back!

After the riff, the ballad's still there. 'Course, you can read your
own, even while still writing it, and you can make changes in the riff
and carry them back into the writing.... You posted a poem a while back,
Stephen, and, then, you posted another version that wasn't just an
edited and fixed version. You kicked off from the left margin, obviously
for the first half-plus, and used that margin all the way through. You
had, pretty much, two poems, running parallel, and each could be
changed, improved, just worked on for its potential differences, maybe
growing apart, each being "its own poem". When I jammed with John's
(Frost) line into haiku, I played it into new versions, but only to kick
it from just playing the music to playing the imagination. And that was
my purpose. He was playing line-breaks, getting the heft of them. I
didn't touch his line-breaks, his playing them, I didn't distract by
getting off into the "hidden" line-break, Caesura?, in the middle
segment, and just went on into the next order of play, tinkering with
the imagined.

Oh, you don't need the hyphen on "no", and the w is just breathed,
almost like the o is extended and no and secrets are, in tempo almost
welded together, like the andor, and that's how you read it, aloud or
sub-vocalized.... You'll have to live with people not reading your
reading as a reading, not sounding it, thinking "andor" is two words
with an omitted space, thinking that "w" on the next segment was just a
particle lying on the road or dropped by an accidental hit of enter. So,
when writing and wanting that effect, you've got to find ways to
spoon-feed, to force sounding it through....

Writing's an oral art.

Easy,

Ghost