A Night with Yoric II A Poem 2010 / 2011 by Klaus J. Gerken II_2 1970 1. In November 1966 I quit school Grade 11 wasn't going well and there was no future for me I was too bored to care so my father agreed I would go to barber school and work for him... The course began January 1967 Algonquin collage... Basic Anatomy, English, History, Business and Accounting required and of course the daily grind in the collage barber shop... Eclectic mix of ages, imigrants and locals. I was the youngest. 4 italians. One drag queen. One guy who kept showing photos of all the women he "made" on the weekend. And one who looked like Barnie Rubble. The 3 locals shared a flat together. I lived at home and commuted every morning several busses...long ride... but gave me time to read. On the way home I stopped downtown bought books to fill my library. Those winter nights so special... won't forget. One freezing morning, the drag queen walked in with a blue ear bigger that his head and didn't know it until someone asked if it was a prostetic... the nurse ministered it and they took him home honking like a duck... it wasn't funny...but the rest of the day was shot. We argued in english class over shakespeare and I continued to write a long epic now lost. (I've lost so many things). On weekends I snuck in art classes - not official but they let me in... it was the summer of love after all... and nothing was quite as structured as it is today. Don't remember too much more... hey joe by hendrix playing in the cafeteria and engeneering students making snide remarks (they always made snide remarks about "the barbers" -- a dance or two some dates mostly though i spent my time alone writing reading paintng listening to cohen dylan icb -- fudged the final exam protested went home and they called me back...i passed went into apprenticeship kilbourne barber shop for three years...fell in love with the girl in the laundrimat next door... we spent the summer together until one day i phoned her late at night and male a voice behind her said..hang up and come to bed.. A rude awakening for an 18 year old...that winter my books became my friends... my dark room my gibson j45 and my songs i put together Dynasty my first book of poems and on an icy february morning i took a cab and ended up on a publisher's front door...he let me in we discussed the book gave me a drink and some recent publications he had published of his and sent me on my way...two months later my mss was returned by post... some very good poems here, he wrote...but you need time to hone your skills... that was fine...by then i had published several poems and felt a world ahead of me...years went on...friends music band demos...1969...woostock... 4th day...mud and hendrix...went back to ottawa...worked again... hated saturdays at the shop...often we had to work till 9 or 10 at night so many patrons forced in before the shop closed...never thought that fair... but had to take it...I always had current literary magazines and the nytimes there and always the books... durrell millar pound poetry literature people even borrowed books...everything i could get my hands on... works in german, old english, latin, even spanish italian and tons of dictionaries translating...heiroglyphics, even chinese... haunted old second hand book stores... ottawa was a meca for those...my monday off was spent rumaging throught dusty shelves and musty basements...searching for that special volume...in those days even the University of Ottawa book store on Nicholas had great books...milton plato...and of course shirley leashmans where i had a chance to buy one of 300 copies of salvidor dali works signed... for 375 and my father thought i was crazy so i let it go...20 years later one edition went for 1.5 million at auction... and of course i discovered eshleman's caterpillar...that would have future future consequences unimagined then...not even computers were imagined least of all on-line publishing...seeds sown sprout eventually. 70's as soon as my apprenticeship was over rented a room and tried to live as an artist and poet... sold drawings on the street and pamphets: sacrifice and chapters and mostly starved... and there was the wine...always the wine... friends and women and parties...the art centre restaurant...the mall...reading finnigan's wake stones...taking friends on bad acid trips to shelters and sherries where we met to discuss the latest nothings... sold papers at Bank and Sparks...met Pam: Searching the City for Pam for Pamela Kinsey I arrive at shops displaying posters of Russen Mig Jets piloted by some inane adolescent or solitary mute It is here that I stop Stop to telephone the operator to hear her voice reject the ideology in mine I ask her to connect me to God God? she says, Who's God? I tell her it's an unlisted number Oh, she says, That explains it then That explains what? I ask We are not allowed to give out unlisted numbers Oh, I said, and hung up I seem to remember the day as hot and sticky, overcast, humid and other things which the weather bureau does not report I walk down Bank street feeling like I was just shot out of a cannon That was about 11 a.m. I had some magazines under my arm Mike wanted them but he hadn't arrived So I went on to Spark's Street Mall sat down at the empty fountain and watched this girl on the next bench staring at me well dressed and red hair had bag made from some hide or perhaps she skinned a cat She smiled and I smiled back Said, Hell, I've been through that Besides I'm tired now Just got up So naturally I premeditated the murder of some famous personage Decided against it when I found my watch had stopped and the world remained inane to all my wants and needs So I got up and moved on to Wellington Street Tried to pass the time by thinking poetically drawing from the inspired dogma of carbon dioxide and other forms of pollution So on past the U.S. Embassy and the Rideau club where all the rich polititians gather Thought of throwing a rock through the window just to stir things up Start a fight or two (Do I dare disturb the universe) The clock on the Peace Tower struck 11:30 so naturally I took it to be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth and set my watch accordingly five minutes back so I wouldn't miss the bus On down Elgin street past the Langevin building where the Prime Minister's office is and the the post office with its great statues of stately lions gurding what I never knew There turned back to Sparks and into W.H. Smith books trying to get my deposit back for a book I didn't order but they had misplaced all the invoices and told me to come back another day I left without a cent Oh well ain't starving yet So through the noon time crowd and back to Bank Street where I still found no one that I knew so headed back up the mall (The girl still sitting there now joined by a man smoking fag and reading mag) I get down to the theatre and there find Mike coming down the street with a load of underground newspapers --Ah you're here, he says --Yes, you're late, I say --You got the magaines? --Yeah, but could only get my hands on three --That'll be alright --35 each, I said --That's fine He pulls out a two dollar bill --Haven't any change, I say --Wait here, I'll get some He introduces me to some blond sitting by the fountain We make small talk but get nowhere Mike comes back giving me a dollar and a dime --I owe you a nickle --That's all right --If you come back later I'll have some change then --Fine --See you in a while The blond smiles at me but leaves with Mike In the mean time I head down To the Arts Centre needing time to think about things said to me by the telephone operator Who's God, she said Who's God indeed? I finally get there without my share of no-essentials meeting people and friends along the way talking of inconsequential things and hoping to get by I decide I need some quiet time and walk into the book store browsing Finding a nice comfortable chair I settle in begin reading Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again The writing's so engrossing I loose all sense of time After about twenty pages Begin to grow tired and mark the page that I am at for another time get up slowly put the book back on the shelf and head out to the brilliant afternoon sunblast Up the tarrace overlooking the so pretty pretty green canal Make some notes on what was swimming ceramoniously upon the murky water I called the list Requiem for a Dead Canal Pepsy Cola can Ice cream wrapper Pyro film Newspaper Some feathers (allowed) Plastic Straws Empty cheeze carton some losts, and twigs and wood (also allowed) and some discarded pop bottles To quote a friend "Reason for our sanity" Note: I am beginning to feel like a death certificate I head back up the mall to see if Mike has found that nickle On the way my eyes are haunted by some spider webs and somehow the mind retains a picture of snipers at Berkley and the human element I turn my head away Man it's hot The sun blazing away in omneiscience I try to read the signs in people's eyes Hope to meet them on a rainy day and bring myself back to this collective insecurity So At the corner or Sparks and Bank Mike sells his newspapers Yelling Octopus Creem Berkley Barb and a hundred other assorted varieties I say, How's it gong? sold any yet? --You've come for the nickle, I suppose --Well, if you have the time --Wait here, I'll have to get some change Want to watch the papers for me? --Sure, I've got the time He leaves I stand there The day grabs me in a free-for-all And I pretend to be the self-appointed saviour of the people A meagre beginnning but none the less there come's a time when the solution is so obvious that nothing else matters anymore It is one p.m. the sun beyong the gaze if clouds hot and sticky humid I sell these papars like a madman Sales pitches 'Hot day--cool newspaper" He'll was just feelin' good and ain't no sin Doin' this thing My thing for a time Helping Mike Arguing over who gets the dough He will naturally But I'm meeting lost of people Feel fine Drunk--happy Wonder if it lasts About three I'm in a riotous mood Stopping everyone I can regardless of the law and cops standing by Here is someone coming up to me in sunglasses I say "There's a sale I'll get" So I come up with a new angle "Would you care to support a poet who is just trying to get some money to buy stamps to send his manuscripts off to publishers?" --Oh, poetry, she says almost too excitedly --Yes poetry, I say in my best Leonard Cohen voice She searches her purse for a quarter Can't seem to find one So I talk to her a bit I--I'm a poet too, she says --Good we should talk --Yes we should Just then some bum buds in says How about a dime? How about you leave? He grumbles but he leaves So I turn back to this mysterious dark lady --How about a cup of coffee or a little bit to eat? Which was a logical suggestion since I hadn't eaten all day Just then someone walks past Pinches her says hi goes by --That's my fiancee and my travelling companiom... --Oh I see (do you? well?) We go into the dark coolness of the local Honey Dew cafe Take the farthest most secluded booth Asking to be excused I go downstairs to wipe off all the ink which rubbed off easily on my sweaty hands get most of it off and go back up remove my corderoy jacket --So you write poetry also? --Yes --What kind? trying hard to communicate for I seem to have forgotten the act of communcation in the past year or so living above a delapidated garage near the queensway But Pam is nice She understands She smiles so gently with a sparkle in her eye that's almost magical We communicate The first true communication with someone who would understand the meaning of my thoughts We spoke of things so many things encompassing the whole experience of trying searching eyes for glimmer or a tear a strength or weakness With the music softly playing in the background it had the dreamlike quality and I felt so sad and happy all togther Generally I do not believe in the word trust but this time found trust in eyes and I believed in the divinity of Pam I believed her alibi believed in the generation of her brothers The photographs she showed me explaining very carefully who was who and the processess involved in memory I felt for her as she explained her many step-fathers how her mother had been married trice and how she was shuffled from one household to another We discussed the problems of the home how when parents always argue it affects the children Oh how I believed her eyes although there were things I did not understand about them as if she were holding something back some though or wants or needs that even she had hidden from herself That perfect ordinance of understanding knew the nonsense meaning of our world was a serious endeavour in the chaotic fluctuation of the universe We spoke of books we had not read compared ideologies calculating the precise age of our wordliness I believed strongly in the predictions she had made while reading my palms 'a long life but the road is difficult' I believed in her touch although we never revealed that which concealed our final destinies And I loved her smile So warm and full of meaning The almost unnoticables space between her two front teeth and her ideal precise mastery of words which I could only struggle with and yet there was something something that makes me now certain that she could never be sheltered from the world And yet I felt a child surrounded by her charms And I loved Pam for that as a child to its mother something in her made me feel alive brother unto sister man to woman universal love upheld by any bond that brought us close to each She had something something of an easiness which made me take certain liberties of tongue and heart to assess the world in different colours I who so rarely trust a stranger I who am alone within a crowded room of friends and lovers I loved Pam as I worship the firmament as I feel its vast infiniy possess me hold me fast making me a sole positive refrain withing a world that I had lost At one point I said that I had a tape recorder hidden beneath the table at which she went on a safary to search for its hidden ears I laughed and said that I was only joking She said The voice was true and they make very tiny transistorized ones these days I said The world is becomming much too mechanical that I would like to pack up my bag and head south just walking over fields and through towns in a straight line as the crow flies with no obstacles to obstruct my foolisf fantacies She laughed ever so sweetly and whispered Oh Klaus... I try and acknowledge these moments Only the moments pass so quickly All too fast when you are mutual in your recognition of a meaning It is the knowledge of wanting something which you know will never be It makes me love her even more even more as the time passes without her And now having possessed her for a short time before this travelling lady deserts this post for locations more mystic and less sympathetic than this the conversation continues We conversed for the duration of six wonderful hours trying to merge our profound thoughts with the absurd to vanish into realms untouched before and never to be touched again listening to music no one else can hear only us only we the two poets together in a universe we so fleetingly created The words became less needed and what was said was seen through eyes and felt through empathy whispers without ears glances without fears Want my wanting her wanting but we both knew those wants would never be fulfilled they would remain the ultimate mystery between us a shadow in our inner soul and I am chained like Samson to that mystery a sad and silent mystery Pam, I said, I love you When I thought that no one heard the whole world bore witness to our brief togetherness unsullied by the carnal adventures of a human bond Thinking of it now I am glad there were no secrets that we kept in retrospect that would have been more difficult O how alone I feel and freigtened like a little child lost in a city like New York starved frozen lost unknown unwanted and uncared for I would like to weep at writing this until the oceans overflow I would weep the pain of parting from my mind And leave my heart to mend a broken shell hollow and bereft empty empty empty Oh Pam your hair so black a raven would be proud which oh yes, I know, you insist is the colour red But no matter it is the eyes that capture me And yes, you said you always get that which you want And if only what you want and what I want were the same? But they are the same What pleasures they would bring I walk through empty halls and stare through broken windows to the sky Knowing it could never be and just for being kind you were the doctor's smiling face at death But I waste this energy Life is what I have to talk about (Oh yes Pam I am drunk How else could I keep myself together? I was breaking like a huge land mass quaking beneath the thunder of the earth The moment I heard your telepathic messages flash through my numb brain I felt the whole weight of your loss transmit a devistating loneliness) I don't know there is an echo of a desperation tears that should not come come I am sorry Pam for the moments lost I am experiencing real emotions which focus like a matrix of despair an insurmountable emptiness nothing else can fill perhaps it's only you who can release me you who have so catured me that I no longer am my own You smiled when we kissed and I did too I tried hard to merge my thoughts with yours but there was some reluctance to accept the freely offered restitution I did not understand then and still can't fathom what has been and what is now When we left the restaurant (I remember we walked out without paying for the last two drinks) it began to rain fleeting drizzle and you told me how you loved the rain wanting to remove your shoes walking barefoot through the streets We walked down Bank street till Wellington across the Justice Building Talked a few more minutes before the bus came You asked me if we would ever see each other again I assured you we would if the wild wind so desired it You embraced me Then we parted knowing we would never see the other if again Walking home tormented sad and twisted like a poison ate my heart away I knew the gods had given me something special and this special feeling young I only knew in one great faltering incomprhensability Later I would know... April 31 1970 and so the year went...cool newspapers on a hot day, or so the slogan went... until a cop told me to shut up...someone challenged him and the cop gave his gun to me and they went at it...makes you wonder...i pu the gun on the ledge of the building and went home...a room at the back of a bakery on Bank street... had to climb through the kitchen window... always people there i didn't know...i don't think anyone ever paid the rent... 12 May 2011