INTRODUCTION
MOSHE BENARROCH
Land Of Lunatics
CONTENTS
BILL RANSOM
Stray
"ashes, ashes"
chapter past armageddon
So Yoko Go
In the Labyrinth
LAUREN ARMSTRONG
"Free Mesa"
DUANE LOCKE
AFTER CONTINA D'AMPRESSO
OUR LAST CAMPARI IN ROME
A CAMPARI AT CONTINA D'AMPEZZO
THOSE WHO COME BACK AS GHOST AND DO NOT ASK FORGIVENESS
WILD BEACH
TITUSVILLE, FLORIDA
ROB DIEBOLD
Honey
Undivided
The Heart Around My Stone
August And Warm
Sigh
American Oxide
SHANE JONES
the pearls I wear
Her
Midnight
over coffee
Saying
ROBIN OUZMAN
She Still Sings.
Return to Soto.
Crone at Grozny.
History
Guernica.
Blue Eyes.
WILLIAM FAIRBROTHER
THREE POEMS
POST SCRIPTUM
MARIA JACKETTI
from Grandma's Fortune Cookies
MOSHE BENARROCH Land Of Lunatics ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If These hands that caress my daughter could caress the past If this mouth that kisses my wife could kiss Fatima for one last time when she came back from Belgium to visit us and brought chocolates If these legs could walk through time and drink again and again that last cup of coffee with milk. lately all I do is smoke cigarillos and listen to early Serrat songs crying asking myself what the hell did I do in my previous lives to have landed in this land of lunatics.
BILL RANSOM
Stray
~~~~~
"Where is it she hangs her hat?"
hunger panged
the criminal cat
as he vowed appeal to cop a feel
in stereo subliminal messages
that he conceived
to plead for Peace.
She arrived and replied, "But this Nobel Prize
doesn't come free,"
then listened, resigned,
as her kitten whined his commitments--
mentioned quite unintentionally.
He needed new shadows
in which to swim,
bought mostly whole
he thought:
she liked skim,
he'd outplayed his master and
coped with disaster,
while faster wasting time on her whims.
The structural damage and
fiction's slight dare combined
with unconscious feline nightmare
still stuck in his head,
misled when she said,
"I can't love you but I want you"
to know I might care.--
He stole through her window
(she'd locked the doors)
saw the rogue tomcat
who slept on her floor,
loudly he grieved
Sylvester out thieved
as she pretended to care
and he to ignore.
Darkness attempted to
push meaning across
while the few words he knew
remained at his loss,
content with price paid
for the sacrifice made
as she broke him quickly
nailed his paws to
the cross where he amused
chaos with subtle sly verse
addressed to her--
"It must be my curse
to remain confused because chasing the muse
is like parallel parking without reverse.
These gelatin moods had longed for your impression
'til they changed into strange thoughts of depression
for a nine-foot flaw, distracted, I saw that
Lady Justice misread my obsession."
BILL RANSOM
"ashes, ashes"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i.
after proposition
quick decision
a collage
of love binge guarded,
she unpinned the corsage
"needle's thin
go talk to god,"
so the monk departed
to identify his
true vocation
damned by her
loose occupation
ii.
refreshed he confessed
the tryst was a risk
took a test did his best
though he positively pissed;
felt sick and cold
as she impersonally
reminded him
part of her wicked soul
yet remained behind
with him in the mud
occult bad blood
resulted in a flood
of sudden silver sympathy
while he filtered
other's empathy
into a puddle
of nasty graphic suds
iii.
another day spent in life-crisis,
he prayed to allah,
jesus christ, and isis
called to thor, raphael, dionysus,
horace, baal, ares, osiris
but his chorus failed
to ease the virus;
he kneeled to sealed fate
genuflected to hate
waited then wrote
complicated anecdotes,
notes, psalms, and hints
on his palms and parchments
he printed his defense
on vellum and papyrus
dispelled his conscience
because it inspired this
prominent descent
iv.
on medication,
his desperation lied
to quickly
make his point
before he died;
sickly avoided: quarrels,
cues, churches, pews,
refused to employ morals
while he screwed the world;
deployed his toys
in spy's disguise to
a new girl brave
and well-behaved
nice for his final rise,
took her to the grave
but he couldn't
look in her eyes
v.
"in an array of dna
d.t.a. the poison plague
we all will
surely drown,
fading in obscene waves
as we pass miscast parades
of protein found around"
the shade aids
what's left for death as
we all fall down
BILL RANSOM
chapter past armageddon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the blue sky
boiled violet
then swirled
cloudy blood red
as the colors of twilight
mixed with the
oncoming storm
together,
thousands of nameless
faces and voices
prayed at the summit
as they waited
patience tested
by multiple choice
indecision
alone,
content to
view reality though a
radical spectrum
he watched the spectacles
with natural amazement
and token fear
(flaming clouds dropped
fiery welts swelling blisters
on helpless creatures
as lightening's fingernails
scratched the dirt of Earth
thunder blundered
in ears unused
to their torment
while an iridescent sky
filled with the fireworks
display of devastation
rapidly descended upon
the faithful
land and sea
rippled overlapped
until the Earth
regained her grasp
over oceans
carving canals
as they retreated
from her mountainous fingers)
he was suddenly aware--
everyone
drowned under the waters
destroyed by apocalyptic terrors
from the sky
swallowed by magma
beneath the earth;
the angel of death
tardy or awol
refused to anoint this
as his judgment day
revelations
desperation
as vapors
declined to reveal
god's prismatic promise
to contrast
the futile gray
and pink tint of morning
as it faded into
the blue sky
BILL RANSOM
So Yoko Go
~~~~~~~~~~
Do you know
where heaven lies?
Or anywhere
dogs might go when they die
I guess I know
where mine resides
she's by the side
of the road
rolled over
alone--
if only
I would've known--
I nod not to god
but to memory
unburied
abandoned & stranded
suddenly ferried
down the Styx--
while Tiva,
her sister licks
fatal wounds under
west Texas moon.
Split the wolf-mix
whines final cry
howls her goodbye
while I
sob and deny
she can't be replaced:
her freckled face,
silver mane,
speckled brown eyes
filled with
tears, fears, rain,
loss, pain, and surprise.
She won the race
her finish line--
final whine ends when
my crumpled best friend's
bent snout descends.
Now I declare a toast to
Yoko the Ghost
the most delicate
canine design;
celibate & spayed
her parade
turned to gray.
She dissolves into dust
I must not forget
albeit upset
at the harsh recollection
of losing her
unconditional affection.
For Yoko's sake I hope
there's a field up above
of veal, squirrels, and steaks,
shoes, boots, and gloves--
I showed her how
to speak & to shake,
but she taught me
how to love.
BILL RANSOM
In the Labyrinth
His cricket conscience asks him to resign
The constant clamor in medieval mind
Still clamped to give-up-now like a leech
Trapped in moment by her circle spell
Contained and drained in hell as well
Cause heaven hovers just out of reach
He burns with the pain of repeated decision
He yearns to stay to rephrase his revision
And convince the crowd that satire is not a flaw
The results discovered were uneven expected
Didn't bother to appear to dis(respect)-or-respect it
As he dodges daughter dragon's wicked claws
In the Labyrinth
Together he gathers his emotions so close
In a pseudo-connection that only one knows
Plays fine guitar line, in a pleading plan of the past
As his indifference curves shift to the left
The more that she offers, the less he accepts
That their situation, his agitation won't last
He needs a break from this tragedy score
Grabs a fresh bottle and readies-sets-pours
Confused at the Styx, he returns to his daze
Where life as a metaphor has no cause to object
To vampire desire or to the pain in the neck
Of being bitten, smitten, or lost in a Minotaur maze
In the Labyrinth
He's numb with the fear of a new episode
As a winding minstrel down a wandering road
Paved with her whims and forced to misunderstand
He's pleased to serve her passions each evening
Wants and deserves more, now he's leaving
To discover the answers that lay near a sober end
He doesn't like this place or its connotations
His scene's a disgrace--governed by Haitians
Who needle voodoo dolls of specified drone
Complex is the depth of misplaced successes
Though he's seen the priest, he never confesses
She makes him feel together except when alone
In the Labyrinth
With the sudden sense
Of pride he hides himself inside
A maze of grays and misguided ways
Not meant to cause offense--
In the Labyrinth
LAUREN ARMSTRONG
"Free Mesa"
~~~~~~~~~~~
An amethyst in my navel
but I can't feel it
unimportant
its there
It isn't hard to keep my eyes closed
its harder to keep them open
I force thoughts and all the rhetoric out of my mind
Ignore the places my body itches
Ignore the quietly noisy background
quiet quiet quiet quiet
I forget my body exists
Farther into myself
forget the mind
forget consciousness
nothing nothing nothing nothing
The entirety of my body rebels against calmness
jerking me off the bed
full body convulsion
what happened to the desert?
everything extreme
quiet
my spiritualism that takes four and a half beers
and a button
and I become the coyote melting
into the sand
I am a surrealist painting
look at me
and you will see
a two dimensional fish
or someone's face
or a Prussian soldier
but on the mesa
I run and run and run and run
until my clothes fall off
and hair streaming down my back
with the serpent coiling up my leg
and titillating me
into the cold air
collapsing
convulsing
bleeding into the ground
so that is why the sand is red
it is a woman
being free
DUANE LOCKE
AFTER CONTINA D'AMPRESSO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I hurry by heavy sweaters,
Misty breaths, skis on shoulders,
I hurry by people struggling to repeat
What others told them they were.
I hurry towards the avalanche
That erased the road
To leave what I was,
The person spoken into me by others.
DUANE LOCKE
OUR LAST CAMPARI IN ROME
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We'll depart, we have been defeated
By Agrippa and all those revere
The commonplaces of the state.
We sit here, close, drinking Campari,
Glancing at a temple built by Agrippa
During the third Consulate
To celebrated the defeat of something
That posed a problem, like us,
To the grandeur of the state.
We touch, watch swallows
Whirl around an obelisk.
We long for their erratic flight,
But will return to our regular lives.
We are not swallows.
No ambitious politician
Will ever built a monument
To celebrate the victory
Of the state over us.
Our defeat will be overlooked.
DUANE LOCKE
A CAMPARI AT CONTINA D'AMPEZZO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now with snow outside,
The whole landscape, a pure whiteness,
I understand. I had a choice of roads,
I took the one towards the deepest winter.
It was the wild green road I loved,
But was afraid not to freeze.
The pale blue shadows between
The high piled snow,
A blue like the blue of her eyes,
Were some compensation.
DUANE LOCKE
THOSE WHO COME BACK AS GHOST
AND DO NOT ASK FORGIVENESS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My uncle wore a black felt wide brimmed hat,
A white shirt, with the top button pulled off,
Black suspenders, black unpressed pants
Everyday in the year before he drank himself to death.
His will surprised his wife,
Surprised his children.
No one could comprehend
Why he left all his money
To a girl who worked in the shirt store
Where he bought his white shirts.
DUANE LOCKE
WILD BEACH
~~~~~~~~~~
Mangroves slap their branches
And their inhabitants, tiny red-eyed crabs,
Against my cheek as I stroll down a wild beach.
Inside the mangroves a vireo
That constantly repeats his one note.
This beach, too diverse, too complex
For the mind to turn the landscape into a tame pet.
This landscape is beyond containment by the mind's leash.
Nothing can be clarified, defined, classified.
The organizing and destroying mind is overwhelmed;
Pure perception is born.
I'm no longer separate from the earth,
Thus I'm fused with the dowitcher
Pushing his long black bill into the dark oozing mud.
DUANE LOCKE
TITUSVILLE, FLORIDA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sit, look over water, lean on bark or skin.
My tree is a grackle, or a girl with dark hair.
The wine is almost gone.
Not far from us old men reading sport pages,
Waiting for the lift-off.
Another sip of wine, she and I press closer together.
Grip each other
When we see the silver flashes of emerging dolphins.
We both become the rhythms of the dolphins.
Our trance is interrupted
By an old man shouting, "Look, the blast off."
ROB DIEBOLD
Honey
~~~~~
I found a tang of small clover
honey which fell from God's dark plumage
and I find I need to examine this
golden ochre jewel
for debris and pollen and other
minute fragments of God's beard
or bee's legs
This may be my nature
today's nature
This will be my source
This may erupt into my void
and occupy me with an abundance
with a stocky fullness
and a bouquet of watering dance music
I have noted a similar effect
from sea spray
and occasionaly the moon's rays
This is not your tobacco
sweetened with molasses
nor is this sweetness excreted
by aphides or ants
Fluid yellow simple and handsome
Thick and sticky and handsome
upon my thin wrist
and chin
ROB DIEBOLD
Undivided
~~~~~~~~~
What attracted you to me in the first place?
Was it my heavy extra limb
or my lucid yellow eyes
and eggs fertile?
Did we sense the big light?
scent of light so large
I waxed you beneath me
to me
Six cells wrapped in wing
We flew beneath and between
flew softly in the light
softened ourselves with light
Articulated bodies moist
and firm and thin in the middle
where you have no hair
or taste
You realize that when we join
we have no nature
no mother's scale
no other eyes
no mother's cell dividing
soft cell dividing
That when we join
we lose our color
we lose our veins
Humming blindly to each other
we fall from the long green limb
and settle slowly in the pool of birth
Relaxing
We release our amino acids
combine our acids
Our signature is very loose
foaming
we rippled and shrank
and I tasted your quivering goodbye voice
Then the ants carry us deep
marching and singing
They are kind and they bite us
down down deep
into their own large light
Our thin shells are nested and content
We are the warmest fuel
for many happy
happy conversations
ROB DIEBOLD
The Heart Around My Stone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No more fluids
no transfer
tubes not splicing
or wrapping
welded tatoos
tatoos no more melted
on twisting spines
than spices dying in the dark
you were
all the way in me
all the way up to
the stone in my heart
casting
animals cling to walls
our spinnerets
spinning
our walking legs
wrapping us no more
the earth was our pulse
churning
driving
thin air and a storm
on a salted sea
we became lost
uncoupled
no basting and joining
tears not painting
a rose not red
but a slight saffron dust
of mold on a shelf
beside a broken vase
reminding
ROB DIEBOLD
August And Warm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This remarkable peach toast morning
has so clearly gifted me
a bloom of rising spirit
in the slow adobe air
I touch stones and weave
small grasses with my hands
I am light and brown and alive
This season
healing season
Standing and turning to the Sun
to all my good good Fathers
who warm my twisted scars
as He warms the desert snake
on broken stones
on smooth red rocks
I bake my bread
I sweat my oil
I bend to the burning soil
My feet are dry and thin
and anxious to run
sweeping into the dream of the swollen blue evening
leaping into the hulking blue yeast
of this soft and violet night
I have some turquoise and amber
where the sweet and sour pull of flesh
releases my talk song whisper
releases my cactus flower scent
When the tumbling clay roof of the church
gives up its heat
like the smoke from the farmer's
dark brown prayers
Then I will sleep and dream
of the sad stray dog
we call Abandonado
Tomorrow we must visit the priest
He has injured himself
again
ROB DIEBOLD
Sigh
~~~~
To slide myself down
almost spinning like a child
Unbend the stacking muscles
the tempered popcorn knots of spine
The vibrating wall of exhausted flesh
supplies the loose loose physical
and ungracious moaning
of thanks and release
Feathering sighs warm against
the low fuel hum of cool
arms outside the flannel fold
Stretch my heavy length
and come back shaking
and breath deep breath deep
the india ink
the sound of rain
A river of dark air
and babie's breath
move across my streetlit cheek
as silver symbols spill dark
cocktails across my eyes
ROB DIEBOLD
American Oxide
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oily tar and oil and dirt
hot road bakes wavering heat
stained highway black through
hard blown death rising
beside piles of rusted guns
Love lies bleeding
in a drainage ditch
grafted on to itself
a weed
I breathe the smouldering air
thin and dry we are
wasted by degrees
of exhaust
Mouth and leather plumes gas
gasping tongue draws dust
and spews pain of long walking
movement on surface streets
forever walking sticks
of dirt pounded feet
Limbs are sun swaying
a harsh lunatic dance
We mock blessed ourselves!
My own yankee pope fingers
kissed my withered lips
mumbled bloodless psalms
I sweat confusion
spore of decay is dry
We weld each other
upon iron oxide men
whose shadows burned
our crumbling walls...
Also
from the East came rumors:
dark armies of mad jackboot priests
in kidney throbbing columns
fast toward dawn approaching
heaving and swinging
their knee-hung unformed twins
dangled and sang:
"People eat in the extreme heat
by night and today
wine becomes meat
flesh is the bread"
So be it
As dogs and the lips of dogs
they licked their stale souls
to save themselves
until their sky dried organs
and filthy moons of false love
fell like beards
and the beard of God fell like feathers
As if under under white skies
turned black and the buzzing
from steaming clouds
we hid beneath the over pass
our strange breath stank
of love and grease
as animals limped past
crying
We opened our eyes
and our collective nightmare jibbered
like lightening nauseous
half shot and reeking
I see mountains sparking
shear force splits friction heated
falling out and away
slicing back and spreading thickly
slamming through the canopy
on this quaking earth electric
Wind pelted skin of onion
stung by flies and seeds
stretched cheek to cheek
neck to chin unboned
Hard beneath me
pang of odor harsh men with teeth
horned nails clacking
bad soup bad feeling surrounds
I must leave them all
with a whittle fine pin
prick of love
hoof of love
Sterile miles stolen
from miles of ragged soldiers
attending....and exploring
the wounded insects
scuttle past
a broken shelter
hiding man beating child
spattered broomsticks
he is crying he screams
his love crusted loathing
We touch ourselves inside
We smile with recognition
teeth bright and dizzy
in the sun on earth
gifts to each others hollow
fists and fingers in eyes
tearing eyes windowed
fast with mercury balling
sliding coursing golden fruit
juicing past cheek of apple
passion rotted
We do not leave this road
I fear danger
Smell of ammonia
Smell of america
SHANE JONES
the pearls I wear
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Doctor Lawence,
the pearls I wear
remind me of
the ugly ocean
you showed me -
that of which
no young girl
could ever love.
I remember -
in the yellow of
summer, the
sky flashed
red
when my eyes
closed for you,
and you held
such a large key,
as the locust
melted my
tiny brain.
the pearls I wear,
remind me
of the brown office;
where I saw sharks
sleeping under
your skin, as
you handed me
green pills -
promising me
sunny days
with your razor smile.
but all I saw
and all I see.
is a pallid circus.
still I miss you,
your love, Sarah
SHANE JONES
Her
~~~
sarah almost trips
over her own bra
on the way to the
bathroom.
she is very
drunk, stumbling
in vanilla siloute,
I watch her
every move
from bed.
outside, an old man yells
at the moon,
while pissing on
his wifes flowers.
and
a young blonde cries- in the arms of
a stranger, holding
onto good memories
of her,
x - boyfriend.
i feel very safe
in bed. drunk sarah
sitting on the
cold
toilet seat
singing,
"do you feel like we do"
by Frampton.
i sit up. and
look out the window.
i can hear her crying.
SHANE JONES
Midnight
~~~~~~~~
The combination
Of those
Two sounds,
The rain hitting the fall leaves
And
The symphony on the old radio
Made me think,
"It's all very sad - the music, the nature - but both
are very beautiful,
and very true."
I listened.
I felt.
SHANE JONES
over coffee
~~~~~~~~~~~
I finished my third cup of coffee
and continued to listen to
3 women ramble on
about poetry. how horrible. how sickening.
Mozart was playing
through the shop and I
was reading Ginsberg, and ,
contemplating America. how horrible. how sickening.
One woman lectured on Keroack. what
did she know about Keroack? 3
times divorced, 50 extra pounds
in 4 years, tired face, 2 kids,
everything
gone to
shit.
I got another cup of coffee and sat next
to them. But they were very
boring, and I was very boring.
it was a very boring time.
I decided to leave.
1) got into my car
2) lit a cigarette
3) turned on the radio
4) began to drive-
very
far west.
Destination - San Francisco
SHANE JONES
Saying
~~~~~~
Cashier says, "is that all miss. ?"
Girl says, "no I want YOU!"
Cashier says, "Ok. I leave work in 10 minutes."
Girl says, "Ok. Meet me at Cocos Motel in 20 minutes, room 118."
Cashier smiles.
Girl smiles.
He meets her at the hotel room,
opens the door.
She is laying under the sheets.
A yellow corner lamp lights the room.
Girl says, "ah! Ah! YOU are here!"
Cashier says, "yes, I am."
Girl says, "come, c-c-come to bed, dear."
He undresses and gets into bed.
Girl says, "FUCK ME NOW!"
Cashier says, "Ok, I will."
He climbs her.
Girl says, "oooooooooooooooooooooohhh o o oooooooh."
Cashier says, "…………………….."
They finish.
Both lay on their back, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the ceiling.
The girl moves on top of the cashier - straddles him - and looks down at him.
Girl says, "I LOVE YOU!"
Cashier says, "I know . . . this was fun . . . but next time can you be the
Cashier?"
Girl says, "MY GOD! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE . . . YOU!"
They dress and head back home.
ROBIN OUZMAN
She Still Sings.
Madrid. Jan.2000
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday: I could only have changed at Alonso Martinez ,
heel of the esculator, fifteen years ago, white mouse, voice
wavering silvery stairs, she disappeared; and so it was
I saw her there some years later, mouse in tiny operata ,
purse nowhere but the floor, she disappeared.
Once I saw her accompanied , but only once mouse.
Today she's sallowed , brown mouse, at the foot of the stairs,
her tin voice rattling the shafts, where we pass black moths through her
quivering flame
circumstantial ghosts, she slings stings like fireflies:
she still sings by a cold fireside.
December 31, 99. Isla de Soto, Rio Alba de Tormes,
Santa Marta Alba de Tormes, Salamanca, Spain.
ROBIN OUZMAN
Return to Soto.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am snow.
I am glass.
I am the sands
my footprints pass.
The water was grey.
The isle was brown.
Wrens wooed in winter birches.
The sun glared in pale blue.
Rank of marshy river reed
reeked with frosted sand.
Was it my ghost that walked away?
Was it my ghost left there to stay?
ROBIN OUZMAN
Crone at Grozny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shawl of sacking,
chin to limb arced like a waning moon,
she stumbles through chaos,
desolation, ruin, scars:
a faggot on a bank of embers,
ground brittle, sawdust and drifting planks.
This is no dramatised icon of re-enacted ritual,
but a haunted intangible glimmer of the immortal,
seeping through a wound like blood through a bandage,
where on the wide and winding river across
the plains float only rags.
ROBIN OUZMAN
History
~~~~~~~
When all its dead have gone,
where then is history's song,
but yet for the unborn.
Wear its garb of poison,
be shot with it at dawn,
or its cemetries adorn.
Listen not its roll of drum
nor its toll of confusion,
listen to your heart's time,
Drink love's draught of wine,
on every level of creation
the muse is matrix to illusion.
ROBIN OUZMAN
Guernica.
~~~~~~~~
Winter branches twist into the moon
a filament, silver stabs the heart,
here, where the unnatural electric light,
shatters the naked eye, partitioning
here and there, and another eye
follows me everywhere, inhuman,
shedding dream in deathly pallor.
ROBIN OUZMAN
Blue Eyes.
~~~~~~~~~
As the doe my eyes were blue.
I did not suckle the breast
but for the scorching kiss.
My flesh was seethed
Of bone, my eyes
floated on white flesh
lapping in skies doves flew,
jackals howled in the hills.
I ran on the lake with the crow
overhead, while winds blew,
under sun, moon and stellar mill,
sealed in my eyes of blue.
WILLIAM FAIRBROTHER
THREE POEMS
~~~~~~~~~~~
"I'm dead to the world"
Mom would announce plopping down on the divan kicking off pumps
gulping vodka martini rocks
This particular memory resembles an old old film
blanched by numerous projector bulbs over the years into haunting faintness
some places not even an outline of the figures remaining
but viewed so often I see everything clearly as if from fresh film
We undress and disappear
smell our clothes we are perspiration
that is our relationship to the Universe, Earth, each other we are sweat
Until we drown and crawl back up and walk erect again
MARIA JACKETTI from Grandma's Fortune Cookies ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I. Old boyfriends come back like bad pennies with interest.
Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
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place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede
Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the
Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
Ygdrasil on the Internet at:
* WEB: http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and
alt.centipede
* EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version
and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed
7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced
version. These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a
MIME-attachment.
. REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.
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, 1994, 1995,
1996, 1997, 1998, 1999 & 2000 by Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.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.
All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
COMMENTS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
contents: kgerken@synapse.net
* Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored
files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on
Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access:
art@accces.com
We'd love to hear from you!
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
