on grand, poet passing reaches an all time high pot pamphleteers emerge inky from cellars, even now the underhound is contriving a subversive magazine and new mimeo mags sure either to give you hare raising experiences or not to be imPounded are cut freshly cranked by apocalyptic visionaires ascending and descending, dragging hidden and blatant microphones with them as millions tune on to be turned in. meanwhile our lead poem follows comrade to the moon, planting perhaps the last beat protest on that sea of sorrows, the bomb continues to haunt, rexroth still receives tribute, young girls are writing more than ever before, despite the moonloss; and in this ninth issue we celebrate the ninth beatitude: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God.
