June 2012
VOL XX, Issue 6, Number 230
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson
European Editor: Mois Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter
Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
Michael Annis
WOLVES AT THE MALL
CONTENTS
Michael Mc Aloran...
#1-
#2-
#3-
R. M. Francis
The Screen
Branta Leucopsis
The Steel Nest
A.J. Huffman
A Two-Count Hold On Time
Lost in the Rain
The Heart of a Flame
Nessa O'Mahoney
Her father’s daughter
Her father’s daughter(2)
Sibyl at the Rockefeller
Natural Selection
Jovan Vuksanovich
deviant melody
delirium
brand opia
mindring
dharma drums
the new normal
trailing scent of a hidden prey
beloved
sweet death
Steve Klepetar
Your Mouth
Nothing Happened
Rags
Barbara Phillips
Asters
Remember Rain
The Room
Hepatica
What Happened At The Boutique Hotel
POST SCRIPTUM
Michael Ceraolo
from Euclid Creek, Book Two
Michael Annis
WOLVES AT THE MALL
“With the wolves of the marketplace,
I refuse to howl.”
-Marina Tsvetayeva
grinning reminiscing down marbled corridors, between stores,
at how absolutely dreadful they once were
without muzzles or eye liner, now in the heat of spontaneous
coitus, male and female, mannequin and chimera, exhilarating each naked frame,
shop display, ever marveling at how simply feral is The Gap
grinning knowing they’ve left the North Woods far behind
smugly grinning at the heightened absence of Aurora Borealis,
having learned to walk in Nikes on their hind legs
that their place in the hallowed halls of cartoondom
is immortal
tutored at the finest Outbacks and wildlife habitats
in socially acceptable forms of dominance
suicide
aggression
that a wolf’s howls are for women, and women are rarely broiled meat
that simply leap onto the plate at the first whiff of money, alcohol,
drugs, power,
fame
preferring to stick a tooth in them
bloody and still squealing as they are
eaten
tutored that shoes, belts and purses are prohibited from being
rendered of Wolfskin and only ears are hacked off
and tails disembodied to dangle from keychains
and rear-view mirrors whose paws escape the crossbeams
whose ears are no longer nailed
as tribute to Luther to the parsonage door
whose grinning visages
bleed tears draw long lines of the acquiescent faithful
for the Sunday morning matinee
grinning those Hollywood grins, the emancipated being affixed
delightful from ear to ear, pulsating wet noses flirting with
the scent of suffering
the fragrance of fear, the odor of terror, the stench of death
tails erect, greedily sniffing the perfume laced air,
snorting the white dust of faux diamonds
cut Waterford crystal concentration camps, imprisoned souls, church cell groups,
tear drop madhouses, secret flophouses, backyard barbecues
into flared nostrils stoning righteously the heady cries
of children abandoned for a Gucci bag
orphaned in a lone droplet of Eternity
for whom prisons serve 3-squares a day: 9 Lives sentences of kibbles ‘n bits,
conning, punking, storming the cathouse, carving soap and shoepolish handguns
finding redemption and rehabilitation in turning out license plates
beginning with the numerals Wolf-1, driven by the fierce lashing of rabies
into the foaming jaws of roar, neutered by moralities jaded, toward identity
no longer necessary
to rip open the ripe guts
of rabbit, marmot, beaver, badger, otter, fawn,
lapping up through bendy straws the sweet green ferment.
Wolves at the Mall
may have their grins coached, their teeth cleaned, their tongues brushed and pinked,
all while waiting to have their nails clipped and painted;
where fur at the nape of the neck is layered, teased, snipped fluffed,
permed dyed green reinvented to camouflage them from the gumshoe woodlands
Wolves at the Mall scalped and skinned grinning
lustily, full of themselves, egos emptied with bleached white snapping teeth
rapacious lips curling back at the Food Court, devouring Runzios’
grilled muskrat, slurping Taco Bell’s dead skunk, drooling McDonald’s fried ferret
kiping a coupla Eminem CDs, a Snoop Dog, Nine Inch Nails, ’sup yo?
a National Geographic Explorer DVD on Threatened Arctic
Wolves at the Mall swiping knick knacks of seal, moose, and elk
purchasing their 10th copy of the good book at the Bible Superstore,
this one with paw plate, ex libris, tanned and bound in tasty
100% lamb’s fleece, with gold lamé’ed coon tail bookmark
Wolves at the Mall
whose credit is now restored, paying for everything with plastic,
culturally adept, socially savvy, whose agents and lawyers speak for them
recognize how it is so utterly passé, un-American,
to be Marxists, poets, or revolutionaries, to kill
for ideas rather than sport to play possum with the facts:
how much nicer it is now in the triumph of capitalism
for enterprising young boys to follow upon their heels
for young girls with long slim legs & nearly hairless,
glibly scooping up steaming, blood-soaked wolfshit
dehydrated, cleansed, and repackaged as sheep dung
with nowhere else to meander, to loiter
entertain the notion
with a single sighing wistful grin
dreaming Lac La Croix one day become
a mall on pontoons, surrounded by a moat, where
consumers are ferried by canoe through flocks of cormorant
among subdivisions surrounding errant geese, water and woods
where heavily armed mall cops shall serve and protect shoppers
from black bear, cougar, grizzly, and the intruding poor
Wolves at the Mall
with quivering black lips and fang exploding grins
bearing greater legacy in their extinction than in their resurrection
watch Fox News, cheer the strafing fighter jets screaming in 3D overhead,
rubbing elbows with humans who’ve their lives
sought to possess the wolf’s howl, the predator’s shriek
are too preoccupied, aloof, self-absorbed, jaded,
to vote for President, knowing their man
has fixed the election anyway, this same man who fixed them,
brought them to these malls sterile, howlless, soft to the touch of children
who name them Cuddles, the whole world to stroke and poke without fear,
the same man who bulldozed all needless trees, hunted down and brought
to justice Mother Nature and Her Band of Renegades,
building malls in their stead in which wolves could finally
act civilized, no longer being a threat to society or themselves,
in which they may incessantly chatter over coffee and sweets,
trying one more time to quit the habit, as smoke rings p o o o o r out
through murderous yellow eyes, and born again full-faced grins,
pontificating about the problems of the tundra
how it must soon be leveled, contained, sanitized,
and rather than feed and respect insurgent wolves whose destiny
is still holed up in the wilderness
how they should one day, perhaps between husbands,
write a book about it, or,
at the very least a poem.
-for the humans, on their re-introduction into the wilderness
Michael Mc Aloran
#1-
...dead stop I, or I or not of, anchoring, the final blood’s vein unmasked in the breath of the flesh redeemed,
sunk to nothing...
...asked of, as if it were, deaf to blind to naught and then of, else, rancour, not I, blood to let from broken
glass, dusted with the char of ashen pulse, emptily, fragrant as a carcass...
...no hand to offer, no, blind of eye and gouge of mouth, building from spinal lights, in spit of desolate, adrift
of no wind, sea scar and apathy of the castrated tongue...nothing, nothing...bleeding
out...sea swell of oscillation, a-grip, of ennui, sudden as if to freeze,
echoing out of purpose, bind...
(...said without...)
...nothing’s blood upon stripped cadaver shores, headless all, burn aloud burn no nothing of it, stagnant
...recede, step, no, non-step, back again, follow onward from out of the pale dark, lights in the throat of it...no
no heart, breath escaping in a room of waste, dead alone, jolt, spasm, shot/ shot again, absent again...
...reconciled, phlegm, shit, pissing in the face of it, and drag, the drag of absentee breathing once again
...absence of laughter, absence, trace of cold memory, jolt, spasm, skinning pit of the heart’s divulge...leaving
the sun behind from which you were born...
(...traces,
the fucking avarice of teeth...)
...wrestling yet dead, stone, casket of rat’s skulls, and the pelt of, nectar of drenched, spliced through,
given…vast, infinite loss of eye, dark all but for the echoes, from where, nothing no tracing one’s footsteps
through...
(...I’ll go...)
...dead none, elixir of dread, and the quickened speech, the fragments scattered from the mind’s tract,
flame or none of I, I none of nothing’s claim, as if it never had been before -lying through the teeth of it...
...false abandon...a...
...dead, stop, or I, no not turning aside, not ever of the once, so I believe, never, not a tooth of nail or grip
of lax beheadedness...in a rip of eye, in a razor sadness, what else?...(I lie...)
...nothing claimed...
...nothing claimed...
...nothing claimed...
...nothing...
#2-
...head till none, of the resend, from crux of fever wind in rupture of breath held, (absence, absent...), rib crack
of the absent body, the cull of shadowing, spit lest there be, redeem the emptily, skinned/ bled in
succour of night, stillness, none else/ alack...
...dead till once, of all memory, the burst stitches of silences, dreaming but once,
head shock, no, back to the commence, try but once, never, and...
...all spun, aside, whisperings, nothing...
...till unsaid and then of vast, as if it could, kiss of an open wound, a dead hand’s flourishing into bloom of
kaleidoscope...grandeur, no, head till vast as sky breathing into bankrupt air, stun sharp and stammering,
heart womb, emptiness, of silently, silent(less), broke, no...
...I said yet I didn’t, mocking the…astringent…it can never yet, unspoken, drag, waste and wanton, exigency
of despair...
...ah clear the room I’ll never leave it, there never be, I’ll...
(...and the walls came tumbling down...)
...he said or she I-delivered, skinned once more, not no nor ever not of it...ask...asking as if, sudden
paralysis, long gone now, the worms eating their way through the flesh of it, a lie, no...
...deep dread yet no fear of alone I get what for of it...spun/
lapse, die a little else, a little more, shattering the bruised mirrors and skin-clad walls of
nothing...I’ll commence, yet from what, how, as if, no, shit everywhere...
...no no dreaming, bled as the night’s arteries, to the wick, spit slack and buttress eye...(nausea)...vice,
stain, my blood, no, vice, stain, my blood, everything...asked as if, dread but once, as once, I cannot recall
...breath aloud, as if to...
(...I peel away the membrane of the tumour eye, I see nothing, no I am not blind, the skin away, it falls
away, watching the children playing from my room...I extinguish a cigarette...)
(...as if to caress could…I think of you, the sky opens up like wound(age), I think of you, not a murmur,
yes...)
...as if to, breath aloud, head still vast in the absent of light’s ocular…nothing of it, till unsaid and then of
vast, yet I, no not I, nor I no I have not ceased nor said of it, till once, and then I’ll be, (laughter), spoken
for, erased, I’ll go...
(as of yet...
as of yet...)
#3-
...nor dead, or I, cessation of, nor I nor of the behold, spun, said without will, a throat clogged with dry
leaves, a bankrupt light...
...so and as of then, or then again, I might, distances to trace, no, yes or no, abrupt halt, skinned once
more...
...dreaming of the I or not, of you, perhaps emptily, so it goes, of a fashion, my mind ablaze in the night’s
meld of colourings...
...glistening just so, the spark of the blade catches the eye, exit signs all around and about, traceless, violent
traces, a beginning...
...a tap drips in time with the pulse of the skull, endless to keel from the edge of, the banquet of it, my
hollow sky...
...nor dead…nor I...you or I...
...slash one but for the two, the whole, a carcass to become, said again, erase the step, the mindless folding
of light in the heart is the eye’s breath, sudden now, as if to fall, ingeniously...
...yet it might…or over with...
...the hours are vacant, I’ll go, I’ll resend, I’ll cross myself out, to crack the knuckle eye of it, spurious heart,
clasp-knife of despair, all the while no not of the while, dressage of speech, till claimed of, spun, no nothing
of it, reduced to this aching, no none else of it, it’s settled...
(I speak of the lie of it, I am the refuse of the earth...
I speak of the lie, I am the refuse of the blood’s chambers...)
...doused, I grit my teeth, sudden in outcry, resolve no never resolved, flaming walls of drought...
...(echo)...
...and the claiming of it...
...emasculation of burgeoning teeth and the settled scar, wrestling like a maggot’s tooth for the splendour,
of the meat of I, not withheld, premeditated, castrated, none...
...nothing else: the night erased, sun erased, an immensity of carrion laughter...
(...subtle unto winds outspoken, in drag of teeth, of claw, and the warped limb pageantry, headless, spoken
of...)
R. M. Francis
The Screen
I’ll go out and take the May branches
to build a woven basket
for my brood.
I’ll take the curve of the spectrum
and seal it to your figures.
Then I’ll watch it bloom from the screen.
“Let’s borrow a little bit more, there’s
still enough in the pot.”
“We’ll creak along the boards to steal it.”
A coop-caw comes – echoing,
A murder of crows await on the mass
to harass.
To sniff out our carrion.
They’re sentinels at their post
canvassing for marauders,
holding for the fade.
And when the May branch stiffens,
when wings wilt and the staff snaps and is brittle
I’ll choose another twig for kindling
and throw away my nest,
and sit back again,
and the burning will still be on the screens.
Branta Leucopsis
From the air to the earth the trees dropped.
From the ground they clinker
keel, stem, strakes and hull.
From the trenches mosses are pulled
to drag the dragon
from the port – into the sea.
Invaders in Drekars
crash into the breakers
on the teeth of Spurn Point.
And as they suck themselves along the mud
slacks of The Humber
the driftwood is drawing back.
The undertow, the salty mire
pulling back the wood and wire,
The bubble, the germ, the moisture, the freeze;
Barnacles begin to breed.
Branta Leucopsis bubbles from the wood,
Bold black gems fester in the flotsam.
Wet, cold, darkened skin –
Goose-pimples muster.
They crackle and crisp
then break.
Haunting and hunting the city
for thermals and feed
and pockets of earth
and weather windows
to get back to the Longship lands
where the men had made them from splinters.
The Steel Nest
(after reading Angela Carter)
How the pulley and cog, how they churn
into this constant revolve. Foundation,
you faintly sway, or sink, built from only straw
on a heap of fossils, where the birds steal.
There is no shade in these verses, no release in reading,
There the magpie picks a part of you. Only
now you become chains in this nest,
(step into rounds to become chains in this nest)
Then you could frame the painting with either
becoming at dawn rise blinding the glass
or becoming at dusk tide with a shading handshake;
Carter keeps her wild dogs in a manor house.
A.J. Huffman
A Two-Count Hold On Time
How boring your little mind must be. All tucked
and dusted, each thought rusted in its place.
I would like to visit (bring my crowbar
and sledge out to play) in these pillars
of obsoletrics and watch the foreign fault
of shatter rip it wide. Open like a volcano
(and half as welcoming). Then we could
meet on a field of matched emotions
to barter more than our usual skins.
What a way to arrange a fantasy (final
or otherwise). But this world is work. And worth-
less as it sounds, it still beats solitary
by fifty-two miles of stars.
Lost in the Rain
Dreams in white dresses
like snowflakes
cover my eyes.
Fogging my mind
with the breath
of their vision.
Frozen.
But fragile.
Their beauty is uncarved.
Dirtying at the slightest touch.
Until, truly contaminated,
they are discarded.
Thrown to the flame
of forgetfulness.
Where they pool
beneath a different wind.
Colder.
And bitter.
They become another layer
of solid.
To protect me sane.
The Heart of a Flame
I put the color back
inside the rainbow
of your skin.
Now my fingers are lost
in the fray
ed film of tomorrow.
You left it.
Empty.
But it grows.
Like a memory.
Of depths we never had.
Broken.
It waves in the wind.
Mocking my ignorance
and my impotence.
I can do nothing
to detain such a stain.
It is a force I do not desire
to share.
With your mind or mine.
Still I follow it.
Like some hypnotic dream.
I am controlled by its state.
Is it anxiety?
Or just pain?
My bones cannot remember.
They are only slivers.
And far too weak
to cheat the folds
of forever.
But maybe this time
you are the shadow
that can take our past.
Nessa O'Mahoney
Her father’s daughter
‘It would take plenty of that
to fill a pint,’ said the man
who had never stood at a bar
his entire life
though he would raise
a glass by the fireside.
Now when asked to praise,
or reappraise an offering,
I’ll reach for the same phrase,
ignore ensuing confusion,
refuse enthusiasm
until what’s given is
meted out in
the precise
measurement,
the long division
result that makes
one more wit
out of half.
Her father’s daughter(2)
The first time I know:
standing hip-high
as she lifts the receiver
of the old black phone
in the dining room.
She must have cried before
but I’ve never seen it,
never made the link
between garden falls
and these grown-up trails
of moisture on her cheeks.
On mine, the rough feel
of tweed, the pressure
of knees I cling to
as her hand goes to lips,
hides a silent ‘oh’
like air escaping.
She’ll make that sound
40 years later,
in the corridor of a hospital ward
when she hears that her man
died without her.
Right now we’re innocent
of patterns;
she’s left the confines
of a suburban dining room,
is hearing the tale
of how her dad threw his head back,
laughed his last
and I’m clinging on tighter.
Perhaps she releases me,
perhaps someone else takes my hand
and guides me to where
I wait out this mystery,
still catching echoes
of the not yet heard.
Sibyl at the Rockefeller
A strange choice for guide,
this four foot, seventy-plus dryad
of skyscrapers.
Powder applied chaotically,
feather boa, red shoes, more suited to
the Rainbow Room 65 floors up
than this rain-dashed street.
Like her sister in the Harbour,
she grasps her book of truth
but relies on memory it seems,
the small child gazing up
as men ate sandwiches mid-air,
resting on tight-roped steel.
The Irish (and the Indians)
had the best heads for height.
She leads us onwards,
voice magnified through earphones
thoughtfully supplied at the desk.
Her constant injunction is not
not to look back but to look up
at machine-cut design,
the glories of chrome escalators,
art deco elevators,
the tiger’s eye in black marble.
And all the while she intones her litany:
the ambition of Junior, of Hood,
the vision of Lee Lawrie and Frank Brangwyn,
we tut at the crimes of Diego Rivera.
Come to a halt behind Atlas;
we look through his legs at the Gothic
dropped-out of the sky squat of St Pats,
attempt to spot the familiar
in the bent frame, arms transfixed.
Others have guessed wrong
(Batman, the Terminator);
she smiles as you conjure Christ
from those tortured limbs.
We paid for an hour;
she gives us 90 minutes
before a startled glance,
a shy exchange of tips –
my five dollar bill outdone
by her ‘Go to the river, the only way
to see the place is from the water’ –
and she’s gone, her minute form
drowned by crowds
streaming beneath the city.
Natural Selection
After scanning “The Movements and Habits of Climbing Plants” by Charles Darwin, MRA, FRS,
John Murray, Abermarle Street, 1875
April blusters into May,
plays a glassy tune
on the wind chimes
guarding the crab-apple
from the rapine of bull-finch.
At my desk on the first floor,
I hear but can’t see
most of the garden-action,
though the upward climb
of pink and white
on the silver birch
still arrests me.
Each year a yard more
up the green cascade;
the tree’s delicate limbs
can’t withstand
the steady upward creep
of clematis Montana,
the sinuous grip
of passion-flower.
The white twines higher
than its pink-tipped mate,
blossoms lighter,
lured on by cloud,
evolved enough to ignore
the pull of gravity.
The manuals frown
on this symbiosis;
I applaud
the subtle strength
of tendril,
the ruthlessness of vine.
Jovan Vuksanovich
deviant melody
I am a silver tongued devil
laughing shaman
thief of fire
provocateur
oracle of the absent present
conscience of the exception
wildflower seed
deviant melody
original voice
deep within this sacred body hidden
song ecstatic
irrational
erotic
whispering incantations
seductions
into every sleepy ear
pied piper of the delta tribes
uplifter of nightmare scenarios
nomadic madmen
defiant minstrel marauders of the unsaid
forever questing vigilant vagabond
serenading desert solitary
wandering exile in a garden of mortal flowers
agile dancer leaping precipices of abysmal absurdity
primordial pain pleasure principle
ancient lover of the infinite intimate
embracing prisoners fleeing the wilderness of echoes
delirium
night flows through day
like blood in my veins
I dream while awake
talk as I sleep
drunken prostitute
lipstick smeared across hysterical mouth
limps past on broken stiletto heel
angry pimp screaming death threats
slapping her face
jerking her arm
ripping her sleeve
dream while awake
talk as I sleep
below a merciless sun
I wander
weary
alone
so alone
yearning for relief
escape
anxious faces of passing strangers
downcast desperate eyes
defined in hideous detail by relentless light
too familiar
too close
too close
dream while awake
talk as I sleep
far above
beyond solar rage
icy stars
mysterious cold black space
borderless soundlessness
faceless intimacy
dream while awake
talk as I sleep
down here
claustrophobic now
too hot
too hot
feverish mind
burning
burning
I press on
press on
dream while awake
talk as I sleep
sizzling asphalt blisters my feet
vision strains
I stumble almost falling
dream while awake
talk as I sleep
in the relentless heat
blue pony
prancing lightly
confidently towards my outstretched scorched hands
nuzzling my bewilderment with otherworldly coolness
dream while awake
talk as I sleep
warm tears seeping from my eyes
I exhale
glide
dream while asleep
talk as I wake
brand opia
bmw
range rover
mercedes benz
rendezvous to boast
who possess the most
tame bodies
tame brains
so tame tame
tame bodies
tame brains
so vain vain
I mercedes
lust of ladies
especially THAT one
boutique lovechild shopping for coco chanel
botox forehead
platinum highlights
nose job
bleached teeth
collagen lips
silicon tits
tummy tuck
liposuctioned ass
rolex wrist
obsessed by my logo since preteen
drive her and her girlfriend
everywhere
silent witness to their after hours sex in MY backseat
what gorgeous unsuspecting blonde accessories
complementing my champagne beige exterior
sleek lines
unrivaled power
elite class
bmw chimes
I'm no nickels and dimes
check out my stud striking a pose at the bar
corvoissier in hand
cartier cuff links
armani suit
boss shirt
versace tie
gucci shoes
cavalli cologne
cancun tanned face
oh my grinning urban narcissus
flashing my fog lights
revving my pistons
ramming my stick shift
burning rubber all the way down rodeo drive
so totally under MY spell
always takes me and trophy girl to the best restaurants
jockeys me right up front on the curb
fuck the parking tickets
blatantly flaunts my downtown sexy cool
bogus logos
look at me
range rover suv
you can't compare THEM to MY love slave femme
look at her
ms. high maintenance
prada eyewear
lululemon form fitting yoga slims
pilates lean body
silver bellyring
golden retriever
corporate hubby
private school brats
I LOVE her endless surface
nouveau riche bravado
nowhere does she motor without ME regaling her pedigree
Yo!
what's this?
class warfare?
I'm made in the shade cadillac escalade
white as blow
idling in front of a beverly hills starbucks
spinner hubcaps whirling like sparking diamond fans
check out MY hip hop antihero
projects diablo
wit da bling bling
strutting inside for his L.A. latte
scarface digs my dolby surround sound
smell of luxurious leather
narcotic for his ghetto pain
I just ride him everywhere
dominate his ass
mr. product placement himself worships the asphalt I roll on
I'm pope of pimps
heaven on wheels
ssshhhhhhhhhhhh
they're coming back
act like objects
tame bodies
tame brains
so tame tame
tame bodies
tame brains
so vain vain
mindring
m i n d r i n n n n n n n n n n g
thought stop
b l o o d r u s h
brainword
b r e a k
b r e a k
dream wake
dream sleep
snakejaw s o r a w
moon silver
sky black
sky d e e p
d e e p
b l a c k
b l a c k
s o u n d s e e
green eye
brain snake
tongue slither
w e t
w e t
cry out
LOUD soft
s o f t
s o f t
clear hear
eyes shut
eyes open
space you me
wide open
w i d e r w i d e
gone image you
gone image me
gone sink
f a l l i n g
f a l l i n g
sink sink
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
gone
gone
d i s a p p e a r
skin sex soft
taste new wet
thrust trust
s l i d e i n s i d e
wake dream
hot wake
m o a n
m o a n
love pleasure again
m o r e m o r e
I you look you see s m i l e
I you look you see l a u g h
suck wet feel
love wet wet
soul suck tongue
d e e p
d e e p
s o u n d h o l l o w
blood blind
suck breath
life death
cradle birth
daily day
blood lip
most ghost
lonely open
l o n e l y
l o n e l y
o p e n
o p e n
hawk's beak mind speak
ice child
lost
p a s t
p a s t
p a s t
follow lead
lead follow
mother tongue
old young
ash mind
corpse think
back dance
sexhead
rain blood
d o w n r a i n
d o w n d o w n
r e d r a i n
feel with
deep feel
joy happy
s l i d e i n s i d e
wet warm
wet love
I you play w o r d
I you deep l o o k
I you deep b r e a t h e
easy e a s e
s o e a s y e a s e
many too many mouth words
many too many low high low
many too many night sleep
many too many dream day
time
tick
time
tick
time
time
many too many time tick time
spinning round round
spirit me body me
come g o
g o
many too many days dead
many too many laugh cry face
again
again
many too many never again see
many too many
live die
die live
love no
love yes
again spinning
again
m o r e
m o r e
many too many
break heart
pain flesh flesh
m a n y t o o m a n y
dharma drums
anorexic idealists
anemic moralists
mummified dadaists
sterile surrealists
post modern hypochondriacs
mourning the death of an imaginary god
mama's got dementia
rage in absentia
papa's dead dead in his grave
cheap thrill hedonists
spotlight hooligans
mainstream hoopla
literary lickspittles
midair cliche collisions
parallel uni verses
carnage on the rampage page
whirling carousel of the damned
mama's got dementia
rage in absentia
papa's dead dead in his grave
gold diggers
fast cars
venus mars
bourgeois barbies
hollywood harpies
airbrushed mongrels
frozen souls in starched armani
low-rise high rollers
pussy-whipped sons of nuns
happy-go-lucky crucifix airheads
cult of celebrity spit lists
retro roulette
age of pimps
whores
sycophants
bores
drunken sailors on a ship of fools
mama's got dementia
rage in absentia
papa's dead dead in his grave
facelift jehova
botox redeemer
saintly psychosis
pious neurosis
priestly lust
ashes dust
pope opium with an epistle in his pants
ride ride cardinal jekyll
bishop hyde
parsifal awaits you
sporting anna sui eyeliner
christian dior rouges brilliant lipstick
sipping dom perignon at the grail castle after hours bar
mama's got dementia
rage in absentia
papa's dead dead in his grave
hell is for liars
no vacancy today
blink of an eye
madness reigns supreme
but look! look who's dancing in the inferno!
holy rimbaud!
saddle the sabbath
gallop across satori savannahs
forget yesterday
remember tomorrow
french kiss buddha in his canary yellow
perched on eggshell blue
celebrate
celebrate
celebrate fate you irreverent few
forever creating the always new
mama's got dementia
rage in absentia
papa's dead dead in his grave
the new normal
never met a woman looks like you
eyes dark as night
mind
body
soul
so right
in love
so in love with you
girlfriends
boyfriends
husbands
wives
stop
smitten
transfixed
mesmerized by the sudden shock of you
conventional morality
sexual orientation
fall away like broken chains
men
women
equally aroused in your presence
heart pounding erotic freedom
raucous rebellion against the status quo
even God
the Devil
flee angels
demons
virtue vice
all heaven hell
mad mad fools at the sight of you
delirious devotees chasing after you
never met a woman thinks like you
innovative
creative
rapier wit
mocking vain intellectuals
zero tolerance for arrogant dogma thugs
yet listening deeply to genuine seekers of truth
supportive of their search
island of solace against alienation
chilling loneliness
inflicted on courageous exiles
who dare eat forbidden fruit
champion of free thinkers everywhere
in awe of you
respect you
totally in love with you
never met a woman smiles like you
laughs like you
moves like you
so alluring
enchanting
seductive
wicked
fun!
I dance
spin spin with you
entranced by you
out of control
drunk on you
inspired by you
in love
so in love with you
so wildly
insanely
ecstatically
in love with you
trailing scent of a hidden prey
whirlpool of deepening shadows
audacious call of the wild
masked mystery cloaked in randomly directed unspoken methodologies
spacious subterranean silence amid the constant clutter
clatter of everyday life
absence present
deadpan peepshow
rebellious clairvoyance eyeing the forest for the trees
tumultuous evocative whole
minus the bleating parts
we
without mine or yours
renegade thoughts rushing upward like mad niagaras
ancient cock eyed sun rising backwards in a bipolar west
setting defeated in a catatonic east
counterclockwise return to nowhere
androgynous sundial of blazing paradoxes
one pointed irrational arrows
speeding towards the ailing heart of staggering status quo
echoing dark side bowstring humming
humming
quieter
quieter
reverberating endlessly
look
see
smell
slippery underbelly of humanity's slithering past
vanishing footprints of legless warriors
trailing scent of a hidden prey
seductive mirage of forgotten accusers
enemies of a recurring leap of faith
first hopeful cries of the last humans
painful memories of myopic sycophants fading
fading
sinking
sinking oblivious below waves of soothing amnesia
retreating murmurs of these blind deaf deniers
delirious with modernity's malaria
feverish to the decaying marrow of disappearing yesterdays
ominous
like morbid laughter of hysterical circus clowns
innocent
like sudden death or miraculous birth
bewildering
like barking cats or grinning mules
shocking
like hard cold steel piercing pompous pride
beware the leopard skinned techno vampires
wandering lost the back roads of silicon valley
möbius strip teasers all
giddy giggling soul sucker brains
cliche graveyard gender blurred zombies
their awaiting tombstones begging fascist chisels
craving permanent goosestepping identities
roadside idiot savants swearing their pledge of allegiance to nobel prizefighters
warring in revolving octagons of irreversible fate
across the spinning globe
beyond forgotten hinterlands
light years below icy blinking stars
still further
towards an ancient meadow beyond the cyprus trees
twanging irreverent gypsy banjos
mocking bedouin moonlit crimes of fashion
lost senile arthritic cows stumbling on the rocky hillside of sinai
beloved
mountains high
coastline low
all rivers to the ocean flow
sooner or later I too must go
no matter love
no matter hate
no matter friend
no matter foe
all rivers to the ocean flow
sooner or later I too must go
hidden moon
setting sun
all rivers to the ocean run
no matter angels
no matter devils
no matter life
no matter death
I too will take my final breath
my final breath
beloved
remember me as spirit free
rushing headlong to the sea
no matter young
no matter old
no matter peace
no matter rage
no matter words across this page
rushing headlong to the sea
spirit free
spirit free
I will return another now
another life
another name
to love you only
again and again
so do not weep my beloved
let go mourning
sorrow
despair
we are eternal lovers
endlessly seeking finding one another
transcending every earthly abyss
supernatural passion bliss
sweet death
at dawn you flee from the nightlong riot of my restless dreams into the secrecy of light
like the moon at noon you try to hide in the glare of day
but I see you at the intersection seeming to wait for traffic to pass
that long black cloak
dark glasses
ever-present smoldering cigarette
slipping past a crowd of pragmatic strangers waiting at the streetcar stop
do you really think you are invisible to me
go unnoticed in the daily humdrum?
or do you deliberately make yourself seen to further your whims?
I am losing my way because of you
obsessed by your clandestine movements every minute of waking and sleeping
why do you visit me in the darkest hours when I'm most open
vulnerable
seduce my soul to follow you down forbidden paths of breathtaking intimacy
further and further from the safety
security of the known?
I fear for my sanity but I can't resist your irreverent laugh
frightened because I can't control you
anticipate what comes next
are you friend? enemy?
no certainty
no guarantees
all I know is that I'm hopelessly addicted
you're more dangerous than heroin
yet I can't leave
go back
yesterdays no longer live even in memory
can't remember life before you
sink deeper and deeper into euphoric amnesia
each moment I'm near you is sweet death
you murder familiarity
kill the common in me
lure me into your bed of licentious freedom
until I'm drunk on wanton irrationality
I sometimes rebel against how effortlessly you seduce me but in truth I never want it to end
I've become paradox with you
all my contradictions collide into one avalanche of ecstasy
boundaries
rules of conduct
decorum
collapse involuntarily in your presence
I'm shaken to my core by your primal gaze
mesmerized by your hypnotic voice
your touch is fire
I am fever throughout
burning madman
delirious lover
godless beauty
terror
pain
pleasure
fragility
courage
my heart breaks with joy because of you
gratitude overflows like a mountain stream in springtime
my shadow disappears into a torrent of illumination
I'm catapulted downstream head over heels
drown naked in the blissful ocean of eternity
Steve Klepetar
Your Mouth
It’s wide as a church door, that orifice opening like music
to dawn, trumpet part deep in every glowing moment
when red bleeds across April sky. Such a broken confusion
of cold and tentative light, such a sound drenching oaks,
and woodpeckers thrumming at the side of your house.
Your mouth becomes a lake silvered with mist, where herons
sweep past cattail beds and night rolls back, her surrender
as ever filled with defiance and truculent rage. Your mouth
is a page from a magic book written in the language of soaring
notes. Your mouth is a boat and a cocoon, a way of bearing
all this bursting green. Your mouth has been violins held at lamp
height, chaining the jealous stars to hope. Your red tongue
is a vehicle for joy, a taste of drums and the oboe’s hot tears,
a way to honor the flutes and their pinpricks of gold. I have sweated
here in this morning display, unused to the miracles your breathe,
your oracle’s mouth, that limestone cave without envy or mercy or fear.
Nothing Happened
If nothing happened, how could the mountain
learn to lie flat against a pillow of sea?
And tending where? Down the hallway of what
remains, along carpet and stairs, my motion nothing
but slow seeping through crusts of rock
while you sped along an arrow’s golden route
too light to turn aside. Who fell asleep? We did, and slept
all night in a diamond bed, drugged by the voice of plums.
Rags
All day snow burned through gray March
sky driving the terrified year before its acid
onslaught. Who would have predicted these
icy tongues lapping madly at such stringy
afternoon light? Where have the wild dogs
gone who haunted our little park all winter?
Have you seen them breeding in shadows
of freezing rain or heard their barks beating
against willows, yellow now and struggling
to leaf in this lingering cold? Such terrible
weather for drinking of spring beer, such a
curse loose in this angry wind. Someone
has sewn fluttering rags above every grave,
and pulled down the flag of our mangled love.
Barbara Phillips
Asters
beauty burdened
ecstasy of glories
womb explosions
feasts of gratitude
for searing sun's passion
jewels in ragged gowns
birthing envy
in rainbows banished
now that fall lies plundered
asters in buxom bounty
flirt dance beneath
unborn tempests
midwife frosts
rustle riots
in one more heat of chance
asters stir
stars in spheres
tear time
last drop of vintage wine
as it all starts
it all bends
begging a beginning
begging an ending
a waxing
a waning
just let it be
Remember Rain
I remember rain
curtains in skies
taste of grapes
green as new grass
scatter of damp
arms of trees
supplicants
dancing for relief
overburdened
beauty veiled
mute songs
caught in throats of birds
rain slick
on your hair
hands in jeans pockets
shoulders hunched
endless monologues
you turn
water screen
blurs your escape
snags puddles
consuming clouds
The Room
last week we travelled to a place called Andrews in West Texas
which essentially is the same as being on Mars
where 90% of the Oil from Texas comes from
... there’s NOTHING out there but red fields of dust
& oil pumping stations & oh yah
with the current out-of-sight price of oil
... everybody including their uncle
is out there ---- drilling
at the flea trap we stayed at
the hotel carpet was so disgusting –
the dog refused to lie on it --
he jumped up on our bed
& laid down the minute
we walked into the room…
... I had a really hot hot hot shower next morning
– when the outside temperature was freezing ...
... needless to say … I caught a chill
& that’s how I wound up in the mess I’m in today ...
one of the dolts we went out with went out for all of one day
& then spent the remainder of the week in his flea palace
... “sick”
... if that would have been me
... I would have found a way to get out of that room
Hepatica
white waxy face
stares up at me
gold centre holds me
light in these dark woods
early spring is still cool
there is no promise of warmth
in the wind that frets
among leaves long fallen
like the leaves around the hepatica
I brought home from school
a kindness from a teacher
with a gardener's soul
planted in my father's flower bed
it bloomed bravely for one whole day
it's end was announced the next day
as it lay mutilated on the compost pile, denounced as a weed
What Happened At The Boutique Hotel
what happened at the boutique hotel
when you did not come as promised
was what did not happen as it would have
had you come as you had said you would
at the door, I did not take your leonine head
between my hands to touch your lips
with mine, look into your eyes to see
how the world was treating you that day
your hand was not in mine when
I drank the Hemingway mojito
listening to Debussy as the sun set
not as brilliantly as it used to
on the mile high bed with silken sheets
I lay sending you goodnight embraces
in the morning the empty chair at the
breakfast table welcomed a passing sparrow
Michael Ceraolo
from Euclid Creek, Book Two
August 14, 2011
The sun was already fully up
early on a Sunday morning
as I rode the bus down Euclid Avenue
to one of the Transit Centers,
this one
named after a retired local politician
(someone who actually merited
having something named after him),
where
I would have a few-minute wait
to catch the connecting bus
that would take me to work
(others would have varying waits
to catch one of the other buses
or the train)
While I was waiting
along with dozens of others,
one man was working the crowd,
generally unsuccessful because
his story had as little entertainment value
as it had truth
When he got to me
and asked for a few bucks,
allegedly for breakfast
(I couldn't quite understand
his mumbled mumbo-jumbo
about why he had no money),
I was reaching into my wallet
when he was suddenly seized by the spirit,
the spirit
that animates many,
here and everywhere,
and
he changed his request,
without changing his story,
to ten dollars for a rib dinner
Unfortunately,
I did not have that much money,
and also,
that last increase
pushed his request into the very large area
between the small amounts that would always be given
and the very large amounts that would also always be given
(those very large amounts that would allow
people to be described as civic leaders)
I put my wallet away and got on the bus,
and
he begged his way on after me
and all the other paying fares,
and
had a short ride to wherever it was
he was going to finish or continue his night-------
A man I admire
hosts a local radio show,
a sports show on a college radio station
no less:
two-and-a-half hours,
less
the occasional break for public-service announcements,
of his speaking of sports,
mostly;
sometimes
he jump-cuts to other subjects,
but,
no matter the topic
he is almost always interesting,
and
his program is further unencumbered
by ridiculous callers or idiot-in-the-street interviews
I don't agree with him on everything, of course
(I don't agree with anyone,
even myself,
on everything),
but
there is one non-sports point in particular
I would like to disagree on with him here
He lives in the city proper,
and
often refers to those outside the city proper
as living in the Outer Rim
(Why
do I sometimes hear that phrase as The Outer Limits?)
I would like to give him food for thought:
first,
the reliance
on man-made,
rather than natural,
boundaries:
whether
he or many of the 'Outer Rimmers' realize it,
they have more in common by the fact
of living in the same watershed
(the Cuyahoga River watershed in his case)
than they have differences by living
in different political subdivisions;
and second,
that man-made boundaries aren't fixed for all time:
where he lives didn't become part of the city proper
until 1854,
and where he works
didn't become part of the city proper
until 1910,
in large part because
of the school fire of 1908
And
with a change in thinking,
either,
or both,
of these could change again,
and change for the better-------
All selections are 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 - 2012 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
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