July 2006
VOL XIV, Issue 7, Number 159
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter
Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Pedro Sena
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
Maria Jacketti
The Right School with the Right Name
CONTENTS
Janice Thurston
Amnesia
Guilt
A Prayer for Integrity
Paradise Lost
Seduced to full attention
Show and Tell
Wojtek Copija
The Encyclopedist
A Nerudian Sonata
Our noses are perfect
Inferiority complex
Woman and bread and the grasses
Another Rose, Another Seraph
Yesterday and Today
Andalusian Dreams
Shanthi Minor
That's It
Cowboy Hate
All the great love poetry has been written
God
Papa
Binary Fission
Reading
Buddhism for English Majors
Words
Word Sonnet
City Living
Time
"I wish I had the tiniest bit of paper-"
Aiti
Championship Game
Isabella Drzemczewska Hodson
The Unfought Battle
Plucked
To Sleep
Cruel Fate
One
Pieces
Villaluna's Passage
Thumbelina for the Masses
La chasse aux pigeons
Joe Hickey
Galway Artist*
March 18 Order
Father
Mom
fire-dancing
The Best Sleep There Is
Marley Davidson
happy - hour
wrinkled negligee
not so little
browsing at the local future shop
POST SCRIPTUM
Maria Jacketti
New Party: Americans for Lao-Tzu
Maria Jacketti, Phd
The Right School with the Right Name
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I once went to the right school with the right name
and sat in a very prestigious classroom with the right award winning
teachers, when I saw that my nearly Ivy League classmates in writing
workshop were all
carnivorous, dribbling blood that looked my type,
and I, the subtle vegetarian,
was to be their feast, a deer half devoured,
at the end of every class in critical condition,
I hobbled home, my guts a-tumble,
repaired myself,
got sparkling mostly meaningless A's.
learned nothing much.
Graduated
with my handsome degree, I got a job
at a college where mostly meaningless highly
accredited education was happening,
desks clanging off the walls, tradition gangbanged
into the dark ages, me among the other survivors,
and while I tried to
change the insolent parade of tax dollars obscenely
feeding a dumbed down self-perpetuating beast,
I got sent home because I was no good at faking anything,
and wept while watching the functional illiterates
line up for their luxuriously charlatan degrees
again at graduation.
And so I moved on to the rebels,
the insurgents in education, where real education
must still happen as a matter of survival,
quietly, glitz-less,
but now those I left behind attack us because of the lack of
conformity I celebrate,
the difference that is my oxygen.
Janice Thurston
Amnesia
~~~~~~~
I am a broken film.
A series of laughs,
tears,
smiles,
CUT.
My footage is anti-synecdoche;
No crafted hand can splice
To make me whole.
Trying to frame myself
I rush on to the finale:
Flashing numbers,
slashes of colour,
Scrambling past;
Forsaking me in the dark.
Guilt
~~~~~
Affixing a contact with a small rip
Onto the eye.
Keeping it there
Until the tears roll it out.
A Prayer for Integrity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A worm suckles
The surface of my heart.
Challenged, it slowly presses
Its way into the fleshy muscle
Anchoring my limbs.
God help me
I have no means,
No way,
No thing
But this worm
Burrowing a
Fissure
Into my heart.
Give me the
Chance to
Repel
Repair
Oh God,
I promise not to be
That worm.
Paradise Lost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If
Adam
Had
Just
Put
His
Snake
Away
There
Would
Have
Been
No
Problem.
Seduced to full attention
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Teasing an apple while
Sizing over the acts of night-
Satin red robe being slowly
Removed between his front teeth.
Seduced to full attention
By their unmistakable musk
He believes he hears them
Demand gentle pruning and wetness.
He refuses to give in-
To him knowing when
Is better than knowing how.
Jostling around the small bed
He feels through the bush
Stroking at the petals
Until sweat drizzles down his back.
Unable to bare the heat moment’s heat
He leaves the house for a cigarette.
Reclining against some boards
He puffs upon another day’s
Satisfactions-
There's no better life
Than that of a
Greenhouse worker.
Show and Tell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There
are
two
types
of
men
and
women
in
this
world:
Show
and
Tell.
Wojtek Copija
The Encyclopedist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
one here one there
another just over there
another
and another
stars and stars and stars and stars
god himself doesn't quite remember
how many he's made anymore
and poor little you
in your snug little bed
trying to count them all
on your fingers and toes
A Nerudian Sonata
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1. (desnuda eres delgada como el trigo desnudo)
I wish I had written this line,
you two are like sisters
swaying in the morning wind -
if it were mine,
I would accede Neruda to whisper it to Matilde
as I whisper it to you
naga jestes szczupla jak pszenica
naked you are slender as the wheat
naked you are slender as the wheat
2. (Morning, XXVII)*
Naked you are humble as your hand,
familiar, earthen, minimal, diaphanous, round,
yours are the moon lines, apple paths,
naked you are slender as the wheat.
Naked you are blue as night in Cuba,
you have stars and tendrils in your hair,
naked you are yellow and prodigious
as summer in a church of gold.
Naked you are small as your fingernail,
curved, subtle, pink as the birth of day,
and you disclose the subterraneum
as in a long tunnel of belabored costumes:
your transparency fades, unravels its ornament,
and again becomes a naked hand.
(Pablo Neruda)
3. Orchidaceae
cymbidium; phalaenopsis; vanda;
lycaste; coelogyne;
vuylstekeara; miltonia;
paphiopedilum
naked you are a flower in my mouth
4. Naked you are a virgin pebble,
a lamb grazes on your eyelash,
naked you are my libidinal child,
you have the taste of salt and fire on your skin,
naked you are a nymphal seraph,
you have the colour of a grain of sand,
and children breathe their secrets in your ear,
naked you are Mary suckling baby Jesus.
* translated from Pablo Neruda's Spanish original
Our noses are perfect
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our noses are perfect-
they don't have any bumps
they're straight
and have class
in fact,
everyone wishes that
they had our noses
they might be a little bit long,
but if they weren't,
we'd be too perfect
our noses are aerodynamic-
God gave us these aerodynamic noses
because he knew we'd
be driving Porsches one day
Inferiority complex
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In
a
frustrated
attempt
at
writing
a
sonnet,
all
I
could
muster
was
this.
Woman and bread and the grasses
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I eat bread
and the sun comes up
and the grasses grow
and I eat bread
and then the sun goes down
I eat bread
and the sun comes up
and the grasses blow
and I eat bread
and then the sun goes down
I eat an orange
and the sun comes up
and the grasses blow
and I eat bread
and then the sun goes down
And the sun comes up
and the grasses moan
and then the sun goes down
and the sun comes up
and then the sun goes down
and then the sun comes up
and then the sun goes down
and then the sun comes up
and then down
and then up
and then down
and then up
and then down
and then up
and then down
and then I don't know
Another Rose, Another Seraph
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is not easy to write a love song,
never mind one of virginal conception -
I find myself
lost and consumed,
akin to a poor poet beggar,
sifting through anthological scraps
for a nominal token,
a mere image,
a metaphor other than a rose,
or a seraph, or a summer day
Ovid, Dante, and Shakespeare
ravished the language,
and there remains little for me
but the piecing together of fragments,
tattered and worn as they are
I am ill at these numbers
but as a rose consumes a seraph
in the stillness of disquiet
I will sing my analectic love song to you
on the morning of my death, my love
Yesterday and Today
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A butterfly of the most exquisite hues, fluttered its wings amidst the
breath of afternoon. The grasslings paused their toil to watch the butterfly
pass by and the pebbles underneath admired its graceful dance. Even the sun
took notice of its poetic soul and thus shone even more intensely as to
enlighten further those exquisite hues. And the butterfly rejoiced in humble
thanks as it made love to Eunomia oppositifolia and then disappeared in the
gleam, as all butterflies do.
Andalusian Dreams
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O Platero,
My gentle, yellow-toothed companion,
to trot with you amongst Andalusian grasses,
hear the neighboring stream as it trespasses,
and taste those pomegranates once again
to wake to the smell of oven-fresh bread,
breathe in the colours of your idle afternoons,
to write verse under your stars and the moon -
sleep Platero,
amidst those yellow lilies rest your head,
dream,
my tired little friend.
Shanthi Minor
That's It
~~~~~~~~~
I want to SLAM
My poetry into you,
All dirty and dripping
From days of sleeping
Curled up under trees
While guitar collaborations
Make love to our bones.
Dirt caked on our intertwined legs from
Trekking out to the lake;
Dirt washed off and reapplied.
Reapplied.
Cowboy Hate
~~~~~~~~~~~
I hate that stupid cowboy hat:
it doesn't make you look hot.
Stetson first wore it as a joke,
now it's the 10-gallon symptom
of Alberta-tourists.
There is nothing rugged,
wild or sexy
about a man with a head full
of tightly woven,
carefully moulded straw.
I bet it cost you a full day's work.
You'd shoot a man for sitting on it.
You're so collected,
keeping your stance,
hands on your holsters.
I hiss and spit,
my hair swirling
in the dust and wind,
Medusa's
snakes.
You laugh
and swagger over,
patting down my hair,
your fingers absently untangling
the stubborn knots
as you drop
kisses
along my scowling face,
murmuring:
"ma femme sauvage".
I want to turn you to stone
so you can't ride off into the sunset:
You're not a cowboy,
we're not in a Harlequin Romance,
and I won't swoon in your arms.
But here we are.
Your Cavalier is running
and you're leaving me standing
southbound on Highway 169,
the victim of a bad clich=E9.
I want throw myself on you,
knock off your
stupid cowboy hat,
stomp on it,
mash the straw
into a tangled mess
and make you
a ragged scarecrow.
Instead of a rugged,
twinkling, sexy,
tanned and rippled
cardboard cut-out,
leaving his love-sick mistress
for another wild adventure.
All the great love poetry has been written
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All the great love poetry has been written,
and so has all this love poetry
that starts off complaining:
All the great love poetry has been written,
so I'm throwing away this pen
and making wordless love to you.
Coming from my ribs
and opening like a flower
through my chest-
spasmed breaths-
and everywhere
your eyes.
*
I love your eyes like the open sky
on a prairie morning-
sunrise on every horizon.
You are naked as the wheat,
your eyes are the cloudless sky.
Naked, you are an acorn tree
stretching up to the sky.
Naked, you are the ocean I swam in as a child=96
you sweep me along in your tide.
Naked, you are the late afternoon sunlight
that filters through my window
Naked, you are the shadow on the floor.
Naked, you are the sunwarmed sheets
I wrap myself around all night.
Naked, you are strong.
Naked, I am weak.
Naked, you are smooth as the sand
that washes over our feet.
Naked, I love every hair and scar,
every broken bone, reset;
your broken heart, set and set again.
Naked,
I love you like a midnight storm,
a blazing forest fire
that sets the moon flaming red.
God
~~~
A woman once told me:
"What is the price of believing in God?
It is FREE!"
We're such deadly sinners:
God knows we can't turn down
a bargain.
Papa
~~~~
He's planned an escape
for half his life,
he works twelve timezones
past home:
6 weeks in paradise
(Buddhist blessings
for fuel tank openings)
6 weeks in an icicle hell
(barred from salvation)
I think he's stopped believing
in Jesus. He stares
out the window through
morning prayers.
Binary Fission
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you are the kind of boy who thinks
a relationship climaxes on the first night
.genetic success.
you are as methodical as a biologist.
.you wash away your dna.
no: a software engineer
it fascinates you:
the world can be explained in numbers;
everything breathes and grows in digits
.telling me:
better put your panties on;
there's code on the sheets.
01100110011101010110001101101011
011110010110111101110101
.no redundant twos or threes.
you analyse my anger
and promise to reprogram:
encode my reaction;
recode your response
.trial error trickles
between my legs.
Reading
~~~~~~~
The
text
has
a
magical
virtue
of
its
own
for
people
who
cannot
read.
Buddhism for English Majors
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So
you
are
one
with
what
you
perceive
(i
before
e
except
after
c)
Words
~~~~~
Every
word
we
speak
is
muffled
by
kisses-
silenced
by
the
end
of
poetry.
Word Sonnet
~~~~~~~~~~~
This
sonnet
is
life
as
it
should
be:
slow,
separate
strokes;
a
fleeting
melody.
City Living
~~~~~~~~~~~
In
pulp
towns
it's
called
the
Smell
of
Money;
here
we
breathe
it
free.
Time
~~~~
The
first
offbeat
of
our
yearlong
discord
was
that
watch
ticking
on
your
wrist.
I wish I had the tiniest bit of paper-
newsprint, a dirty napkin, anything-
to scribble out exactly how much
I hate you.
Once I find a scrap of something
I'll spew black ink all over it;
I'll squeeze my pen till
nails dig into skin
and I'll imagine it's your
sandpaper face
-burning up my chin, my cheeks,
bruising my lips-
I'll write - there, a receipt-
some dinner I bought for you,
you
bratty momma's boy, all prim and proper like a tea cosy;
you vile, detestable, huge-assed, penny-loafer-wearing,
star-trek-watching, snobby scrabble-playing bastard-
I write
until my anger
dissolves
to sweaty, liquid scrawl.
I pause and my nails retract,
leaving half-moon imprints
like smiles
on my palm
and I'm laughing at this
puddling blackness on white;
These duelling shades of nothingness.
My words begin to curve,
reach and embrace,
melt,
to loving you again.
Aiti
~~~~
There are no pots and pans
clinkingclanking in my mother's kitchen:
only the jinglejangle
of bellydancing bells
Dancing- oh, dancing!
arms up,
whirling, twisting the air
like a veil through her hair!
She has a bit too much belly,
not enough boobs-
her hips swish as she moves:
they shake like a storm
down the stairs
past my bedroom.
Championship Game
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's the city championships:
Vikings versus Trojans,
And Aaron's mother huddles
under blankets up high
on cold, metal bleachers.
Aaron's mother,
a born-again believer,
prays for her son's honour
through Trojan victory.
But alas, Mount Olympus
Is far from Montreal,
And the gods don't care
About football.
Isabella Drzemczewska Hodson
The Unfought Battle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
listen
to their pitter patter
upon the tombs of grass
they scurry to the battlefield
grasp their fallen weapons
to take their lost turn
that sweet smell lingers
on their smeared faces
and chilly jaws
eyes widen
hands swipe damp cheeks
when they see
that no blood slips from new wounds
there is nothing to mourn
the battle was too quick
useless, they return
to the shadows on the field
but there is no going back
lonely, shivering, the night is cold
but there are many nights ahead
before the white underworld
will show its blemished face to the moon
Plucked
~~~~~~~
I taste the fruit
and clutch it to my bosom
in ecstasy
as I feel its flavour burst
on my tongue
and slip down my pulsing throat
I can't help myself.
I am selfish
I want to keep it to myself
but, obedient
to my Lord,
I share it.
the sweet rhythm
its sugar coursing through my veins
I want more
I am greedy.
in red pithy passion
I hold and hold
and savour until I can feel
I gulp and swallow
ungently, and I live.
but the sweetness becomes bitter
and Knowledge grabs
and ravishes me.
sweet Adam, selfish Adam,
he hates me now
and no one has ever forgiven me.
To Sleep
~~~~~~~~
I drink a drought of mildew and worm's blood
clear in a crystal vial
with blossoms of roses and amber
scented like heaven
it works its way into my veins
soothes them to sleep
suffuses muscles and flesh
comes to rest in my bones
arms crossed over my chest
breathing stilled
death comes softly
but only my body is taken
I am asleep for my handsome prince
but the forest does not grow
for a hundred years around me
and there is no cut glass coffin
instead the boonful drink
festers my skin
alive in spirit, I decay in body
beauty escapes me
Romeo will not come
the witch tricked me
there is no happy ending
Cruel Fate
~~~~~~~~~~
the faeries dance
their ethereal dance of beauty
and passion,
slowing to a crawl
and slither of wings
as a passerby watches
what he sees
in the instant
from blur to standstill
is the poised body
grey corpse with outstretched limbs
and hollow, sunken eyes
utterly vacant
he is scared
for these faeries are not real
nor are they friendly
with their pointed teeth
and withering stare
so he runs
and they, mad,
pursue
until he is caught
in a whirl of oblivion
a sprinkling of dust
and the jab of insistent teeth
One
~~~
sitting
on the edge of Time
waiting
for the Unknown
the plains are cold
and empty
and extend forever backward
into vastness, the Known
there is no cliff
nothing to hint at what comes
no sound, no sky
only the plains, brown and bare
rabbits should live here
they'd do well
their footsteps would be hidden
by the grass
a voice! a voice, far away
I can hear it
it is coming from There
but I, alone, am Here
will it come?
will the visitor arrive
to guide me
to his Space, his place of Nothing that exists?
sitting
on the edge of Time
waiting
for the Unknown
Pieces
~~~~~~
I like the way
you see inside
and let me in
through the door
that opens
just when I want it to
I like the way
your pieces are scattered
folded in my sheets
how I touch them,
fondle them one by one,
reach over and hold them to my face
I like the way
your hair folds over your legs
and your limbs, with flesh so supple,
dance in the grave
hidden from prying eyes
that do not deserve to see your grace
I like the way
your bones murmur
as if through water
calling me forward
beckoning their love
in nubile light
and, dear,
I love the way
you stay quiet
let us keep our little secrets
let me kiss you goodnight.
Villaluna's Passage
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Across the lonely moors of wild land,
Where green moss, grassy knolls, and bare trees stand,
The hound awaits his witch-girl rider fair
Whose supple limbs will grasp his deep red hair.
She rides through mist and snow and bursts of rain,
Through the glades, over the hills, but in vain.
Her bow and spear sing in the haunting sky,
But the birds she hunts left without a cry.
The deer, the moose, the serpents, all are gone,
Something hushed in mystery has gone wrong.
Fleeing the fires of the treacherous peat,
Over the still moors they bound, run, and leap.
The flames are gone, the bog-drenched rain is here,
But utter desolation greets the seer.
Thumbelina for the Masses
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She sprung up from a marble ashtray stained with oil, purely formed and
white. Amidst the ashes and the butts she quivered into being. Her lusty
skin glowed with life but was dirtied by the tar in the narcotics she
breathed. A helping hand rescued her, transporting her safely to a purse,
where she lay with lipstick and a mirror.
The people loved her, gave her thimbles of beer, made her dance jigs on
barstools. CNN covered her story. She became world-famous as easily as she
emerged from the ashtray. Cecil fell for her; she wore her wedding band
around her waist. For a woman the size of a thumb, she was plump. And yet
she was suffused with anorexic vitality.
The beer had done her good, made her forget her cigarette existence and the
charms of Cecil's probing finger.
They called her Thumbelina after the innocent child of Anderson. But she was
nowhere near as happy as the smiling, desirable girl who entranced frogs and
fishes.
Thumbelina, drunk with agony, having had too much of Cecil and danced one
jig too many, fell off her barstool and was stepped on by a drunken lout.
And that was the end of her.
La chasse aux pigeons
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Said the Pigeon to the Fly,
"I want to savour you before I die."
"Savour my wiles, my wit, or my charm?"
Answered the Fly, seeking to disarm.
"Oh, all three," said Pigeon sly,
"I'd like to give every one a try."
"Well," buzzed the Fly, "I'm all yours.
No one will come to my succours."
Speaking thus, the Fly flew off,
Leaving greedy Pigeon to strut and scoff.
"He'll never make it past my beak,
Not when his flying skills are so weak."
Jumping off the window ledge he soared,
Approaching the fly he so abhorred.
Flying swift and low, flap and go,
He came upon his little foe.
"Here I am, you lumpy fool.
You'll do the backstroke in my drool!"
So the merry chase was on,
Pigeon swooping over river, tree, and lawn.
Fly was fast, but far too slow
To outrace a pigeon or a crow.
Yet everything was not lost -
With a mighty leap he crossed
The sky, sailing clear away,
And alighted on a window over the bay.
Angry Pigeon bore downward in a rush;
"Stupid bug - I'll make you mush!"
Hurtling down at laughing Fly,
He realized with a tardy cry
That there was a window in his way.
He squawked hurriedly in dismay,
But his futile cries came way too late -
He smashed into the thick glass plate.
Happy Fly laughed at his clever ways -
What a super end to Pigeon's days!
Then he jumped and twirled in the air,
But alas, tumbled into Spider's lair.
Joe Hickey
Galway Artist*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Drawing
the
dole
in
a
sketchy
pub:
portrait
of
the
artist
as
an
Irishman.
* "artist" is Irish slang for a person getting social security
March 18 Order
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Waiter,
I'll
have
a
pint
of
water,
to
chase
my
double
shot
of
Aspirin.
Father
~~~~~~
Something about his words
started a ringing
around the surface
of my skin,
a tremor.
The speech was never new,
repeated to the point
of exhaustion.
But shivers
whispered slowly down
my arms, and breath
came in short bursts
until
I finally fell, sobbing,
onto the spire
of his voice.
When age flattened
the peaks of those
sharp sounds
and my body outgrew
the limitations of fear,
how I wished
for just one
keen word,
one
last
small
shiver.
Mom
~~~
when I was young
you lead me
away from our busy
street's clanging
concrete;
you showed me
the silent world
caught
between the covers
of a book.
We'd go without sound
into lost lakes, forests,
jewelled caverns,
unaware of hours
slipping by
with the turning
of pages,
roaming on
into sleep
where your face
becomes the infinite sky
warming the fields
with sunlight,
as I run and run
in the sparkling grass.
fire-dancing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
your hands on my shoulders
and our feet brush the ground
strands of fire
fall over your eyes.
your wild sparks
curl in arcs
and I'm ice in the fire -
I melt as you move
and ignite
the winter air
with a
whip
of your
red hair.
The Best Sleep There Is
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was rolling those rocks all day.
Don't ask how many, the main thing is
my arms are stuffed with embers
and my eyelashes have become
little lead sinkers.
Under the blanket,
each square centimetre of skin
begins to float away -
"due next Friday"
"work this weekend"
dissolve into darkness
as sleep scatters my mind.
Rolling rocks rise
on the black screen before my eyes
and "huffs"
and "puffs"
provide the perfect lullaby.
Marley Davidson
happy - hour
~~~~~~~~~~~~
pour me something dark
that thickens the blood
keeps the toes warm
top me up
another round
don’t be a stranger
tell me, oh bourbon bottle
about yourself
the wife and kids
sooner or later
I will drown in you
spreading my secrets
like a chemical fire
wrinkled negligee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
slug
tired. ears
ring, no telephone
motion. where are you?
the one who
twisted my sheets, unraveled
the secrets between
my breasts.
prick.
not so little
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
breath spawns frost
veins on the windshield,
keys flaccid in the ignition.
I await her, coming soon
be careful driver, carrying
her down the thin highway;
silhouetting angels
from oncoming lights.
my fingers twitch to hold
you. my first born,
you are faultless
but lost.
a photograph reminds me
you have grown
since last year, holiday
cheer planted. christmas
you came home with dreads,
tongue pierced, drunk.
stoned and ridiculous
said you loved women
it's funny now.
we spoke the other day,
you told me the weather
was crippling, you had
to finish shopping.
you plummet onto the platform,
door hasn't even opened.
eyes half shut, you smile
falling into my arms.
you're home and it's late.
browsing at the local future shop
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a new model
of a former self
improved gimmicks
with removable disk
drive and cd burner
LCD colour co-ordinated
eyes, featuring the latest
voice-over-equipment
now available:
top of the line
software reformatting
customize your lover
Maria Jacketti
New Party: Americans for Lao-Tzu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I want to live a Yankee Doodle Tao-te-Ching
doing nothing, but having it all - in moderation of course --
working and not working, my donkey
in love with the great elephant of nature, diverse
zoo animals too let in and in held sacred bondage in the name of evolution,
skewed by the persistent individual and his or her destiny, so as to
not look nouveau pinko or Zen-bot.
Tomorrow I will pledge allegiance to a flower,
and hope that Social Security may still save me
when I achieve the silvery wise age of Lao-Tzu
and am no longer pretty enough to be loved.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2006 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
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