April 2008
VOL XVI, Issue 4, Number 180
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
Mark Cunningham
Thyme
Sweatleaf
CONTENTS
Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Germinal
Camaraderie
Conquistadors Kill the Vultures
Christopher Barnes
Reruns
Reshaping A Redress For Molested Shirts
Return Of The Maidenhouse Orphan
Revelation
Revenge
Revolving Lights
Jeff Spahr-Summers
Vultures
fear of deadlines
forgiveness
The Bogeyman
Fariel Shafee
Serenity
The Kaleidoscope
To Peace
Gerard Sarnat
BICOASTAL USA
"America The Beautiful, Spring 2008"
"Boys Will Be Boys"
Roger N. Taber
POEMS FOR PASSING CLOUDS
A SONG OF THE EARTH
SPECIES OF MOSS UNCOVERED
THEATRE ON A DAMASK TABLECLOTH
ROAD SIGNS
EMPATHY
PEACE
kevin gallagher
Untitled
I.
II.
III.
IV.
Lynn Souiedan
Clay
When My Father Died
I am Frozen
Whitewashed
A Small Brown Bird Speaks
New Chairs
The Storm
POST SCRIPTUM
David Sparenberg
BETRAYAL
Mark Cunningham
Thyme
~~~~~
I drink from the melted edge of the milkshake first. The dog put its snout
on my zipper, snorted, and walked away. I like the orange-brown iris best:
it looks already wilted. In The Last Man on Earth, Vincent Prince,
the last man, still wears a pencil mustache.
[specimen]
He called to say I lacked physical presence. "Numb" is the root of "numbered."
In the land of one-eyed men, would Larry Rivers paint figures with only one ear?
The quieter the room gets, the louder my breathing becomes.
[specimen]
It took 3,500 million years of amino acids, lava and sedimentation, organic
evolution and continental drift to produce this afternoon on the rock overlooking
the five valleys, and there would have been no human witness to it if we hadn't
gotten high. When you reach it, the South Pole still points upwards.
Sweatleaf
~~~~~~~~~
The blurb about the book being a gift appeared right above the bar-coded price tag.
When he said life itself was a luxury, we knew we couldn't trust him. I looked at
my hand to make sure I wasn't dreaming; to do so, I placed it on her thigh.
[specimen]
If you say "Mares eat oats and mares eat oats, but little lambs eat ivy" fast enough,
it turns into French. I can't even imagine the person I was when I believed that
"nothing human is alien to me." Night waits until the very last moment of the day
to show up, and then either it's too dark to see it or I see through it clear to the
stars. He said it was time to switch topics, but I was distracted by something else,
so I didn't hear.
Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Germinal
~~~~~~~~
Here the sterile preside.
Out of the order was chaos.
And it leapt and broke you
Out of your silent reverie. Seventeen
inches wide and ten inches long
measured the grieving air.
You worked in distraction. Calendarising
your words. Here and there
droplets leaked from the conversation.
Maybe some of them picked
it up. For they saw you then,
and trembled. With the vermin,
there is a forgiving solidarity.
Camaraderie
~~~~~~~~~~~
And so, this leads to discovery
Of the great meeting room.
Faces from ages spent
Congregate to jest.
The dice is folly,
coated with experiments
that fluked.
Hard earned camaraderie
mask the workings behind.
I ate my memories and
they sunk me down
to earth.
Conquistadors Kill the Vultures
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today we're pimping jazz
to the whores of condescension. The lily
beasts of burden
have come to conquer
and be on top. They don't realise
we Robin Hoods steal back. We smoke their
second hand cigars
and inhale all their
hot air. Then we spread this filth
to the city. We lazy natives.
Who but we? Surely
not the ma'ams
who thank you
after wham-bam.
We're the capital managers
also hooks, line and sinkers.
What you can stamp with sophisticato
-babble we can make here
for a fraction of your wages.
Silly conquistador, you ain't killed the vultures
just yet.
Christopher Barnes
Reruns
~~~~~~
(Howard Hughes watching
"What Ever Happened To Baby Jane")
04.00
A skillet of soup
Spawns two bowls
His banquet of the lucid moments,
Two trickles nervously gulped
Then back to the movie projector.
"I made a picture in 1934 too."
A duo with sibling blood,
Fossilized staginess, longsuffering shadows
A first-night-in-the-camp
Mansion in Hollywood.
"But the studio didn't want to show my film"
They're stitched to each other
By needles of reciprocating spite.
*
14.17
The seasoning is lukewarm,
Cavalcaded out to the Parkinson Cowen,
Hot enough but not seething,
Then a comeback of slurps.
"I made a picture"
Jane is a dog's breakfast, crash-diving
Around the confines,
Boozed up for grey dawns.
"They were too busy"
In the sequence of twelve sweats of soup
He commands more chicken,
They undo another can, switch chunks,
Reheat the goo to the suiting temperature.
"But the studio didn't"
But then that stickling chemise -
Revealing bodice, ash-white bra straps,
Skinned-pearl buttons -
Ripens her into a time-worn hoofer
Plucked and scattered from the seams.
*
19.02
‘I made a picture in 1934’
In the inexact course of twilight,
His eyes hover,
Drugs puncture,
He sees a flit, hears a voice…
"ALL RIGHT Blanche Hudson!
Miss BIG FAT MOVIE STAR, Miss ROTTEN STINKING ACTRESS!
Press a button-ring a bell-
And you think the whole WORLD comes running.
Don't you?"
Reshaping A Redress For Molested Shirts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A giddy-paced spasm
In the Hotpoint window.
Convalescence is a pick-me-up iron.
Return Of The Maidenhouse Orphan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She’d read about the subduing door,
Airmail letters,
Downpour, paint streaks
Weather-cracked.
New barbarians leaving
A permanent mark.
Quarter to eight
Translating the date into Dutch,
The first connection.
A kafuffle, passengers
The cabin,
Public
Faces seen from behind
A dog-eared paperback -
Paul Celan, German edition.
The train chortled
She watched curls burn,
A reefer,
Binding, a ringlet of hair
Tight
Loveless nuns, escapes, dark,
Motoring to the Left Bank,
Meeting Satre in black,
Past unrolling
Down track.
Fluid borders stretch
Spilling clumps, earth,
Absolute spirit, graveyards
Pushing mounds.
Revelation
~~~~~~~~~~
As Antichrist with hair-split mutations
Snake head’s branded, Pinocchio strings,
- Digits spell The Beast.
In shy-of-belief vomit
Of heretics
Who shoulder shrug at The Incarnation,
The blood-sucker completes
His blind smudge
Ushering dawn
From the Neo-Con cabal.
But man may be an angel.
Revenge
~~~~~~~
These specifics are a mirror
To Alaska. A clutter-litter globe
Dares farsightedness.
Snow-dust winters
A worn-ragged flak jacket
And sperm sacs that are not mine
Droop unshaped.
Aim.
The soldier knots
And on the mattress
Blood-warm, a seepage.
Specifics mirror Alaska.
Dare farsightedness.
Revolving Lights
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under fizzles
And swoosh-swoosh-shoops
Silly Billy the chip shop rat
Knits brow storms
- flops
Into swing No. 11
Of the Trip-To-The-Moon Ferris wheel
Flashing his pecker
At stomach-churned drunks.
Nausea: mustard-yellow vomit,
Paint-pot lightning,
Perching bristles
Up sunburnt backs.
A rotated starlet with thumbs erect
He claims whirls of applause.
Jeff Spahr-Summers
Vultures
~~~~~~~~
I see them circling above me
Gliding around
Butt ugly birds
I would know them anywhere
yaka mountain
lets bury our dirty little secrets
in gods backyard
under yaka mountain
in the heat of the desert
lets challenge the devil
lets dig a hole
fear of deadlines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in doing this again i
stew on submissions i
fret over selections i
listen to music i
smoke and i
smote i
edit poems i
chew them one at a time i
make no excuses i
wrestle i
write i
re-write i
read commentary i
indulge myself i
take my own
sweet time
forgiveness
~~~~~~~~~~~
for traci
is a gift we can only
give to ourselves
it cannot be coaxed
or demanded or expected
never borrowed
it knows no guilt
it knows all things
The Bogeyman
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mother needs a handicap room
with a refrigerator
for her insulin.
Mother comes from fairvale
but yesterday
we were in Memphis.
can i wait in the lobby while
Mother gets dressed?
Mother loves the room.
Mother loves the restaurant
you suggested and
she asked me to thank you.
Mother wants a 4am
wake up call.
Mother is
i am a light sleeper.
Fariel Shafee
Serenity
~~~~~~~~
Gravels and damp sand -
motes of planet earth
and fragments of the
soil,
slowly slither
beneath my feet
as columns of tide surge,
to scatter into foam
-reclaimed by the ocean
before they
reach the azure above.
I sense the moist chill
on my open cheek and neck
-- the humid wind hurls
and struggles to re-shape the scape of the shore
that's as fickle as the thoughts
of an
innocent
malleable
child.
My bare unprotected feet
sunken into the sand,
- slowly being deluged by the
watery salty body
of serenity
and of greatness
and of hope.
I FEEL the pulse of the universe
and float on nature's vibe.
The wind encompasses me
touches me
and sculpts me into a fraction
of a
greatness that seems
infinite
instead of leaving me one
tiny
fragile
being.
The Kaleidoscope
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You and I
are standing at
the extreme ends of the
universe
With a pair of dice to roll -
and ignorant
of the other's existence.
My die is rolled
and a number is seen on the
TOP;
so MY rules are made;
the pieces in my
kaleidoscope
move around on the base
and the scarlet, blue,
green and yellow
iridescent fragments of glass
form a pattern that's splendid.
The image gets reflected in the
mirrors of my scope
a million, a zillion times and more
and tiles to form
an infinite world
that appears definite to me;
so I sense a meaning
and I feel I
matter
as I behold the exact image
extending beyond my sight
and the rest of the world dissolved
behind my impassable walls.
Later when I meet you
you seem to me to have appeared
with a bizarre set of rules
and the idea and the conviction of an
unknown world I can't fathom -
so gripped by threat
I am spooked
and
I
long that you were NEVER EVER
created in this universe
with your VERY FLAWED die,
although it is probable
that you're AS innocent as I am.
Your die might actually have
given you a number
that is co-prime to my own
with no common factors at all.
To Peace
~~~~~~~~
Drenched-
Bruised by the acidic
showering rain
that melts away the outer layer
of
emotions shelved
in the depth of soul.
Inflicted by
a persistent pain
as caused by bitter needles
of ice.
Gazing
blankly at the
corner street
passed by dashing cars that honk
and oblivious silent walkers
Some confused and soaked crows fly by.
Distant roars of the thunder
echo
blend with lasting murmurs
around
The memory of a long lost past
No wars, no blood and no flight for life
Gerard Sarnat
BICOASTAL USA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"America The Beautiful, Spring 2008"
K Street slick-suited pigs with earrings
slither and connive how to lobby Congressfolk
into their crosshairs dead or alive.
Up Constitution Avenue, busloads
of sunburned tourists in Bermudas
look like hot dogs, sausage burst
from pink casings; they dither like deer
in the headlights as rainbow babels of locals
bid to take them to China Town to the west
for smoke tea duck or east to the White House
to see lame duck Bush -- or just plain take 'em.
The gaggle instead chooses to waddle to DHHS
to visit their ex-Senator who now guides the ship.
Ushered into a lift where they're packed
as sardines, a handwritten revised manifest,
recently dated, permits the same number
of occupants (20) but scribbles over
the old poundage (3000), replacing it with
a new decree (3500) -- a fine case in point
how Washington DC makes such a difference
dealing with the nation's obesity epidemic.
"Boys Will Be Boys"
Up the hill past the goats stand the boors,
Larry Ellison and Steve Jobs' megamansion
boudoir eyesores, gaudy new palaces built
through the graces of mercenary attorneys
who bullied the Woodside Village Council.
The good townsfolk -- despite great local uproar
and rancor -- were maneuvered into granting
one-time waivers to tear down, not save,
irreplaceable hundred and fifty year-old
farmhouses and millennial Sequoia.
I set out on that road of my last four decades,
again unsure, abhorring that awful hairpin turn
where too many times before I held my breath,
pushed metal to the pedal, foreswore safety
to soar headlong into Skyline's forest magic.
Once more, the scariest part's in front of me,
the cheap thrill I couldn't ignore as a kid (then
the spill): I see another mangled motorbike ghost,
blood on the tracks Dylanlike: yes it was here on
Mountain Home Road he too crashed, almost died.
This time no body's in sight =E2=80=A6 maybe already
tucked in the MedEvac behind hook-and-ladders
and black-and-whites flashing red and blue lights.
On my way back down to Silicon Valley, incitement
now cleared, I pretend as always it never happened.
Roger N. Taber
POEMS FOR PASSING CLOUDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some poems in the wind
only the trees ever hear
and even beasts and birds
fail to catch the words
above the prosaic anxieties
of hungry young in spring,
butterfly wings in summer,
falling leaves in autumn,
bin bag puppies in winter
Some poems in the wind
only the trees ever hear
no matter that humankind
imposes its own lyrics
(poor carbon copies passing
for popular reflections in
some subway busker's eye)
sure to become classics
since they make people cry
Some poems in the wind
only the trees ever hear,
and never let on they know
or beast and bird give up
on a world that humankind
likes to make out it knows
but can't face the wind
with its pathetic untruths,
lyrics sure to blow the mind
Some poems in the wind
only the trees ever hear
about nature's secret ways;
life, death, misadventure,
why it's the good die young
more often than not, while
the old pressure the rest of us
not to forget better days
but take a leaf from the trees
There's a poem in every tree
running rings around history
A SONG OF THE EARTH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If life's journey never easy
each uphill step we take
carries us closer to an eternity
that we, for ourselves, make
with every kind word spoken
to those worse off than we
who have cause to complain
about prejudice and bigotry
but all the more reason to be
glad for a better nature
than those whose life history
reads like pages of a lecture
on the art of that superiority
of those taking care to stay
on the "right" side of sexuality
over any who dare stray
beyond the pale of convention
(as proposed by who? )
bent on the misinterpretation
of all some of us say or do;
True, in some parts of the world
laws allow us to be gay,
to live, let live and get married
no matter what the bigots say;
true, too, that sticks and stones
can break bones, but less so
that we are left unhurt by names
our so-called betters throw;
Let them argue how humanity
insists on certain "norms"
while the rest of us enjoy eternity
in Earth Mother's arms
If life's journey never easy
each uphill step we take
carries us closer to an eternity
that we, for ourselves, make
SPECIES OF MOSS UNCOVERED
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Challenging history,
moss on graveyard stone defies
what we call, identity
Traits of a personality
but a strategy ancestors devise,
challenging history
Shades of mystery
conspiring to spring surprise;
what we call, identity
A cliff-hanging story
of hope and glory, love and lies
challenging history
An affinity with mortality
drawn from family archives;
what we call, identity
A feeling for eternity,
whatever its ends may comprise;
Challenging history,
what we call, identity
THEATRE ON A DAMASK TABLECLOTH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A champagne twilight, reflections
in a beggar's eye
Trees, glittering like chandeliers
at some charity gala
Dove, letting rip with the passion
of a diva to the gods
Jack Frost shinning up drainpipes
to peep in windows
Men and women, running scared
of anxious ghosts
Boys and girls, keeping company
with fantasy fictions
Shadows, like missiles homing in
on suspect targets
Enter stars, ready to cry over spilt
milk on our pillows
ROAD SIGNS
~~~~~~~~~~
It was a bright light that led me to this place,
as I fought for breath in a mother's womb,
painting pictures of peace, glory and grace,
wings of a dove on a warrior's tomb
Where now the light that led me to this place
as I took my first breath outside the womb,
painting pictures of peace, glory and grace,
wings of a dove on a warrior's tomb?
It's a long road that led me to this place,
some call it destiny, fate, even doom,
and although my sight dims, I see a face,
spreading the joy of love on womb and tomb
Who watches out for its peace, glory, grace,
journeys well from first to last resting place
EMPATHY
~~~~~~~
A bird sang in our garden as twilight fell
what species it was, I could not tell
but its song filled my darkening soul with light
and saw me all through the night
Came moon and stars to keep me company
and the bird, still it sang, as if just for me,
a song showing pictures of us to my inner sight
that saw me all through the night
Closer the dawn and a fear, come what may,
that even the bird could not soothe away;
moon and stars could but leave me to a plight
haunting me all through the night
Among the sun's first rays, I sought a smile
the bird, typically, came that last mile
till I found peace and hope enough in a leafy sky
to see me through till my turn to die
Among even love songs heard or yet to hear,
none will sound sweeter to my ear
than of a bird whose species I could not make out
that once sang in our garden all night
Come the longest night of all, I'll go there again
and, together, we'll give the songbird a name
PEACE
~~~~~
It's a hybrid rose called Peace
that carries spring into summer,
letting its petals fall in autumn
to shield the heart from its winter
Coloured yellow, the peace rose
Is for remembrance of times past;
if love, like roses, fade and die
be sure its petals are crafted to last
At any time of year, whenever
and wherever we ache for a need
to inhale love's heady perfume,
Peace roses, human senses, invade
Too often loved ones go to war
never to return or, even if they do,
we too, like them, still suffer
as only humanity in winter can do
If the more ghastly realities of war
even ghosts fear, only fools suppose
its deeper roots lie but dormant
as nature sleeps and nothing grows
At such times, we must be strong,
take well-worn paths the heart knows
for where there's love there's hope
and kinder summers of the Peace rose
kevin gallagher
I.
lastly but not a blue floral moon, incandescent and silently struck the
pavement before digressing its directive was somber, says go and be tides
sweeping your fatal tectonic plates, forks, knives and spoons, written on a
napkin "we will not bother you." we will dismantle the future on sheets of
mercury, smooth sharp silvery sunsets, instead stop and slide out of space
for a second. rendered motionless, devoured by clams and eels swimming over
horizons of fissures and lobes. synapses are buzzing, dendrites reaching out
like a man whose had his legs blown off by a mortar. that last piece of
friction follows you down to the dead meadow, whispering through the keyhole
our wishes are made of plastic. us, we circling the idea of coition like
black magnets. above jars filled with coins, seated aside the eternal
toothpaste is a prescription for love, the expiration date having passed.
take out your pen and copy this word for word, invading me with those sore
eyes, what runs through those veins and beats in your chest do you know.
inches are just another unit, but exactly how many will it take before i
bulldoze your memory. preceding me there shall be a gigantic chasm, hollow
winds drifting over and over. far from a meaningless speck, i would be your
world if i only tried, swallowing orange laughter, nails bent and cracked.
my loving is a bit rusty, but yours is getting dusty.
focus, i am a house of rubble, pull out from beneath the ruined pangs of
sobriety, set on collapsing your aura clear into an ocean of visual and
sonic phenomena. prisms and mirrors abound, buried under the color of
headlights in rainwater at night, them dissipating with glassy shadows.
swaying with the dashboard, while radios speak and jumbo jets are soaring
over lonely motels. there are television towers taller than the highest
spire on the greatest skyscraper: i use them to broadcast my thirst for you
across the haunted continent. you're a cake coated with acquiescence, i
forbid you to eat drink or piss until these threads are untangled. chased
down through the wires, clocks that rise and fall and form ghostly walls
around the proverbial vegetation. shapes torn to shreds, to cease my sleepy
spasms, piles of abandoned effigies are woken by the voltage. currents crash
your cartoon character and shimmer against the paper. dark white words,
turned and spun through a cyclic pattern, you line them up i'll knock them
down. meanwhile oxygen outbursts and warm fears, bodies surfacing like dead
jellyfish. it's timely, the spacious tongues rhythmically stirring inside.
on hometown streets with starry maps, guiding you are the power lines,
parallel like we. rivers of regret run through valleys of desire and over
mountains of indecision. spliced our two identities, i am the dynamo of how
to calculate the forces and probability of this collision. so, heave your
bags of grain to the junkyard, grab your luggage and climb aboard the
vessel, this is a one way flight with no stops.
put your life in the washing machine. the spark of aquatic mindsets, thawed
out of frozen ice, place your appreciations on display it's now or never.
preserved the safety pin and cheap cologne, deceased artifacts and the rolls
of film erased. chew on this: wallpaper moves by your design, like ripples
in a pond, a warped backdrop drenched in apathy. get sucked into the
wormhole, released from my stranglehold, throw a lid on your bottle of
nervous apprehensions. my heart's under lock and key, the pockets are
emptied. i aim to fracture our supermarket rendezvous, drilling perforations
in the fabric. surrendered to the throes of disease, annihilated by a single
keystroke. my exploits go unnoticed crawling below the radar of your
antennae. persistent eardrums, music without bounds, blown up and amplified
beyond the astrological divide. multiplicity of exits and entrances, our
losses are immeasurable, the names of casualties omitted, carved into the
trunks of trees, or just drawn in sand with fingers or twigs, washed up and
discarded like dirty wrappers created by ugly monkeys.
watch out for sticky magic, hiding in nocturnal alleyways, bludgeoning
assertions into a primordial stew. waxen halls lined with bronze figurines
preaching their forlorn grievances. everything leading up to now you may
forget, easily as unflinching cardboard dialtones. mangled beyond
recognition, residual faces upside-down with mouths for eyes and eyes for
mouths. effective immediately all your accounts have zero net worth. this is
an executive memorandum, a drastic measure, a motion for your existence to
hereby be stricken from the record and deemed inadmissible. that jewelry
poses a security risk, limited time offer, no down payment, batteries not
included. breath taken away like belongings, a beacon homing in on blind
intuitions. knocking on the doors all numbered, parasitic and poisonous. the
imminent threat of meditation, pure and unadulterated, draining drops of
potion sad and diluted, fed by cerebral alchemy. tracked the parcel package
in uninterrupted transit. you may strain, you may blink, but notice you will
never acutely escape the webs, the nets, ruptured arteries and gills caught
on the hook as you eagerly await the next installment.
II.
turn back now or else proceed with caution, color coded shards shrouded by
urban sprawl. a distress signal, save our ship if you will, strobe lights
descending on a crazy tripped-out city. warning to all violators and
trespassers, the golden age is upon us, your supreme court decisions have
been overturned. i guarantee these psychic vibrations to be entirely
universal, dangling from saxophone solos, in ancient gardens obscured by too
much punctuation. crackling static radiate your forehead, train wreck of
eyelashes and arms folded staring at the shoelaces. compounded by kitchen
appliances, seatbacks and traytables in upright and locked position. go on
strum your guitar blow your horn, so this is what you were talking about.
never believed i'd see past the days of chapped lips, brushing cheeks
accented by sound of insects buzzing. tropical hemispheres visit me now pick
up on your meaning without speaking. on the brink of spiraling staircases,
suffering knuckles and fists in accidental harmony. stuttering inaudible
verbiage behind native purgatories, useless spectrum of religious
typewriters clinging to your blanket, immersed in the sheets. elaborate
circuitry and passing lanes on interstellar highways, left to wonder who
really has the right of way.
standing attentive to an assemblage of tantric trances, bear witness to
crimes against humanity, jettison your doubts here before we do it for you.
oh feeble firefly, feathers are falling from the firmament. furniture
enslaved whole civilizations just as compact discs unveiling a scenario
stained, salty suspicions suggesting the synthesis of silence. handheld
verses in all their false splendor, layers swelling and swirling with a
fleeting inertia. scent of fruitless ambitions anchored to the coral, tied
down by ropes in knots, adjust your mast, merely a blip navigating faintly
over blue-green sea slopes: who is the captain here? your treasures are all
sunken. invoke the sign of eroded pyramids, overture of lepers eating apples
and oranges. telescoping distant triangles, lottery predictions magnified
our postcard passions. i anticipate your full compliance, as the perfection
of zen yearnings and strokes of luck in an air-conditioned room. gentle and
terminal constellation, so shy and confusing, each day you make me wake up
mindful of the cataclysm of galaxies which will end it all.
playgrounds demolished to make way for graveyards, suburbs turned into
wasteland. swingset logic and carousel charisma folded in half, fallen
crescendos flickering next to exposed genitalia. tapestries frayed at the
edges by chance of horoscope destiny. Saturdays slurred in slow motion,
photographic panorama captured on camera lenses. pause the tape, open the
flood gates, unlocking painful answering machines. elusive convenience and
broken escalators, surely this sentence is a disaster, shifting gears into
neutral. find yourself a bomb shelter and hibernate, dazing in and out of
dim seasons. fire drills only false alarms, teaching me how to shine like a
bird in perpetual migration. contrary to popular belief, sleepwalking is the
seed of uncharted gymnastics. acrobatic skeleton, scattered upon jet-lagged
jealousy. the market has crashed, your dollars and euros and yen are as good
as cotton candy. zombies in the unemployment line, bathroom stalls and
crowding the urinals. winner of musical chairs, fishing starstruck innuendos
i've had just about enough of this styrofoam. dramatic karma dashes in a
flash, inner monologues on the megaphone are louder than ever. i'm a genuine
cheater with a boring lexicon, using axes rather than scissors. in the wink
of an eyelid we have arrived at a maze of pendulums, racing and culminating
in brand names or yes/no questions. answering birth gone up in flame and
smoke, hunted for sport, Californian zodiacs dispelling brutal honesty.
radiator hums into my subtle campfire brain, brooding microcosm of fools
grasping mops for sweaty puddle pools. wine under the guise of a standard
issue bracelet, bridging the grapes with sacred wrists and flashlight
curiosity on dead end roads. exaggerated eyebrow fortress of turquoise and
lavender, speak now or forever hold your peace. too much drugs and
machinery. bones on the verge of breaking and intrinsically weak, i am
retracing all my steps to figure out just where my serotonin slipped.
behold my bubblebath tactics, sandboxes and flawless crystalline baseball
diamonds. rogue stations popularizing garbage, conspirators of vomit and
sewage. fuming smokestacks in contrast to palm trees and a mystical
rainforest, a hereditary rebellion. obsessed with oil, dancing dreamless
with lollipop lullabies and crayon coloring books. i have been issued a
license to regurgitate ultraviolet rays with planetary precision and
bow-and-arrow accuracy. there is a misunderstood genius with an encyclopedia
mind in every American town, wound up in the gutter next to the sidewalk.
paradise of mobile homes in trailer parks, emergency room urgency and bloody
bandages, bruised and swollen please call an ambulance. habitually
translating chronic telephone poles, it's a suicidal satellite state,
allergic to archery, there are revolving doors from coast to coast. monsters
under the bed and in the closet, in chains and handcuffs, soul songs sewn
depending on whether the weather weeps. denim and corduroy assassin selling
you hell for a portal of hours and minutes. we are in obvious territory
here, sleeves and collars up, listening to a telepathic chorus of symphonic
brilliance. follow the instruction manual exactly, automatic aphrodisiacs
saturated and insatiable. my crown sparkles and glistens, rattles like a
snake submerged in mud and clay. once right and wrong have skidded to a
screeching halt, i was just kidding.
III.
terrorism a hot commodity, crucified by the illusion of safety. hawks and
vultures swooping all around your defenseless body, messengers and spies in
camouflage, thrown into a shark tank. addictive as sense impairment, drowned
in alcohol and caffeine, the rustle of petals and leaves feeling too
familiar. push or pull, add or subtract, either way it doesn't matter. toxic
smiles smashed within cave drawings scribbled before history, now in file
cabinets. approach of flowing circumstance, ceaseless and incessant usually
or often counterpart to exceed the speed of inarticulate arrivals. rushing
the end zone and sucked like a spur over the peak, putting stock in notches
while unable to gauge or dodge dandelions in bug-eyed bloom. archaic
anachronism of anarchy, straddling a balance beam on castle islands, the
chaotic establishment grows sour and stifled. bricks gave way to balloons,
attacking the sketches with a sensitive vocabulary, saintly inhaling steam
like a surreal gypsy who pledges their fledgling submarine. periscope
vineyards of elixirs being rationed off and interpreted like model racecars,
yellow toy dump trucks and inflatable pools. god has us on a healthy diet,
stupefied whipping and screaming from the balcony, landing on the
windshield. a genetic mutation resulting in dull fangs, foaming and
frothing, homeless wandering and nomadic computer chanting its flailing
failures. the tail of a cetacean, intelligently pulsating for echo location
purposes. angry at being poised at the guillotine, hung on the gallows with
a pungent, potent odor of a blueprint for our demise. in between cellular
processes and crevices, a crying creed takes the blame for evil on a blank
slate. skating pirouette with dilated hazel pupils and an empty parking
meter. i am the champion of lazy enamels, engraving framed portraits all
messed up by the boardgame. the floors are lame lately, drunken wheels
bouncing over the gravel, teasing me with their moisture in morning,
afternoon or evening. a fortunate blessing to be animated by this pencil,
catalyst for a spirit made up of explosive dynamite. it goes tick-tock. we
are all observers and our stomachs are churning. surfing on stereo sound
waves just for survival although tortured by leftovers in the refrigerator.
household chores are performed with remarkable dexterity. wounded and
vulnerable at an airport you lapse into dehydration. who acknowledges our
labor, anyway? with the dawn i yawn and howls escape fast from my
headphones. ladies and gentlemen, please place your bets. access granted or
denied depending on whether it's in the cards. the taste of minimum wage
medicine peeling away third world violence like miserable quarters or tokens
in vending and pinball machines. a Jurassic arcade launchpad, savage
rainbows tipping their hats to our curvature. turntables confessing
something is amiss, unfair apocalypse and nuclear holocaust. might as well
be my last will and testament, earthquakes tornadoes hurricanes and tsunami
cannot match up to this. traverse a demented swamp in thigh-high boots,
pirates with scurvy on hunger strike, like spyware and popup advertisements.
honeymoon traveler engaged in cumbersome imagery, counterfeit currency
exchanging cashier cleared out the cash register. i'm afraid my landlord
hates me for jaywalking with mascara across avenues and boulevards. jump on
the bandwagon, for these Xerox copies are all altered and in Arabic.
clockwise as the crow flies, aneurysms either chocolate or vanilla, catch my
drift? a genocide has been averted, substituted for a faulty euthanasia
program. targeted are the physically disabled and mentally impaired. i'm a
buoy juggling evangelist propaganda on my shoulders, we all deserve a good
flogging. there is no monarch, only kings and queens in corporate monopoly
migraine headaches. you can either rescue the hostages or defuse the bomb.
taxi-cab drivers in tuxedos told to pay their taxes. holographic helicopter
spanning channels for spilled milk. startled by an outbreak of epidemic
proportions. led astray by the ashtray's liquidated assets. pawns drumming
to their fullest capacity, polar axis made up of stripes, dots and spots.
aluminum foil alliteration tilted forever always asking and procrastinating
on the task at hand: hyper Mediterranean skies agree with clever
conversation and drool over desperate hexagons. my handicapped copilot has
retreated for his daily cigarette, the idea of women and pharmaceutical
comfort. the aquarium leaks, it's too late, close the curtains and shudder.
we're surrounded, bean bag ice cream traps ambushing on equilibrium.
blinking bears bare their embarrassing hiccups beside punctual puzzles. a
plethora of symmetrical seatbelt swarms, sapphire rubies manic and aligned
to the colossal stagnation. volcanic geyser erupting liquid magma unto the
terrain while present tense surprising presents wrapped in ribbons are
presented to the politician's point of view. a drizzle of crooked gossip
travels from trench warfare in the utopian desert. barcodes which were once
tangible, now belonging to the excited air. it's too tacky. clean shaven
people pacing around their pillows, drinking holy cocktails in a diner,
preparations for an invented century. circus sideshow freak rants to the
roadkill prototype who is malignant & cancerous. cannot ascertain degraded
gradients, graceful extremities of cinematic diversity. romantic criteria
duplicating animated neon microphones; evaporated precipitation and an itch
you cannot scratch. trying to justify drivethrough traffic, accessories
filling the aisles, thorns and briars atop the patio. double agenda
repressed by disbelief in perverted metropolis. bellybuttons breached and
eclipsed like the velocity of confiscated toxins and delicious sunshine.
graceful locomotives volunteer their dominoes for an insane orgy. oh
cannibalistic savior, clogged & hypocritical, defending your coconuts, try
this on for size / don't take it personally. memories refreshed in blurry
text, license plates swiftly switched. the foreign spectacle is severed at
the seams, a phantom limb fighting the stigma. i'm glad regardless, a
disturbing recipe for immediate digestion. chivalric crusaders excluded from
civil rights. reminiscent of deliverance... diagonal winds glitch for
complicated diversions and evangelical conversions. inhibiting habitat,
domestic mosaic with paranoid limitations. we hold these truths to be
self-evident. a biblical error accumulated eccentric calligraphy. my
sunburned sweetheart lies near the fire hydrant in a bizarre crosswalk which
is a synonym for paralysis. flexible elastics, enchanted and charming to
recurring sunglasses while shuffling massive credit-card geography.
frantically reciting twilight sequences with the wind-up cars, the
jack-in-boxes. wearing weathered sandals whether the wreckage solidifies or
not. a steady shade, fixated on fictional selections moving like a Polaroid
handshake. the tourist's lightbulb lantern is rotten & lofty. chewy
fingernail, rubber rubbish contaminated by polluted wizardry. soapy tiles
tempered by shampoo and lotion in a tube. seashell kingdoms defended from
the nosediving nightmare who is barefoot, stealth, and buoyant. let the
dartboard debut with a fairytale baptism that penetrates and pervades the
weekend. choking on exhaust fumes to comprehend the delicate ascent. what i
mean is, a hybrid of syncopated perspiration and facial freckles. this
requires parental supervision. the trick-or-treat martyr absorbs special
lettering and newspaper expectations are shattered. we're in for some
turbulence. all dizzy and skinny, with a foggy youth and no progress in
sight. starving, i put on an improvised raincoat and situate myself before
the subwoofer's feedback. the options are sloppy, so hop on the butterfly
bandwagon. Atlantic bicycles achieve recognition in their dysfunctional
partnership. it's the whistle express. stuck in an avalanche, a phase
reversal. and the redundant minimalist conforms to his stale strategy,
sighing. i'm tired of all the volleyball nonsense. obscene consumers keep
catching hypothermia!! so i must prevent these etch-a-sketch blues. pump
gas, the dishwasher, a glass of tap from a Roman aqueduct. availability is
fully assured and reliant on simple breakfast illuminations. agree in the
listless conversation & poetic madness. until you run out and go back to the
source, via Saharan hitchhiking. make no mistakes, come reckless, relaxed
and fabulous. then backlash, gun jumping in a muscular marathon.
screwdrivers hovering over a depressed invitation. i vacantly stare at my
humble transmitter, receiving the cosmos which is tiny, underlined &
hypnotic. you can't do this on the Sabbath. the daredevil's mantra is
composed with a little champagne and official humidity. mainstream flavors
boring rhetoric, distilled laundry. energetic network of postage stamp
collectors unorganized and flying kites. the skillful vision becomes trivial
and extinguished among a dynamic interplay of varying altitudes. did you
know your shirt is inside-out?
honestly the dilemma is imaginary. yin-yang wings and things founded on
disposable morning dew. illusory allusions to the convincing metaphor,
adventurous and futuristic. the hot rods being polished and buttered is an
inapplicable practicality. playful virtuoso is just dilly-dallying with
bread crumbs. candid & undesirable rough draft. a burst of prepubescent
essences, spread by creatures craving good dreams while the balance is
upset. hungry for invisible architecture and fresh pancakes. interference
from the hazardous juggernaut which is gloriously spoiled. burnt buttercups
leave behind a lesser trail of opinions for good measure. greatest equations
solved by automatic temperament, mild climates climaxing in raindrop
temperatures. ashes plague. this instance, momentary forgiveness and we
recall the login and password lucidly. the discount twitches. downtown cop
sirens fade like trend fads having been adequately compensated for tasks.
accepting impressive pressure, descriptive & permanent, cloudy storms
reeling ears to toes with wicked sickness. juvenile blisters in the mix
without knowing why. remember detention, recess, and after school activities
- they're harmful if swallowed. hooked by an expanding contract that's
totally concave if not unnecessary. these explicit lyrics; replete in
honored sorrow or else held in high regard. structurally methodic however
barely written weird masterpieces. it's just a land grab, unendorsed,
without disclaimer and hopelessly in synch. misdirected assumptions intact.
compacted beams outwardly envelop the saddest streams. heads actually nod
and bob inadvisably. the predicted configuration is doubtful, its collective
formula bogus & precocious.
IV.
mortality is next in line and fragile... i'm mostly gone. been appointed for
a disappointing appointment at an apartment. naked shoulders brushed aside
like staged puppets propped up in a strange coincidence. knees frequently
scarred & charred but promptly adjusted. the hive has been hijacked and
replaced with a windy wharf.. it's laced with darkened angels who are both
arctic and wielding fiery bikinis. frightened by messy fights and the idea
of a doorknob seems far-fetched in itself. move coolly, no hesitation,
spurred on by pink pastels and sandy vocabulary. the sort of cucumber
ambition that is kinda fascinating. currently freedom startles slim ebbs,
synthesized chimes, premium ringtones acquired by notebook and faith in
laptop service. at an artful dock, dual breadths get picked for a duel.
confusion's conclusions deduced by lunar landings on such short notice. the
waitress witnessed it, she makes no exceptions with her twisted deviations.
a strong image and reactions kept & contained, past repair, making love to
the peppered pasture. losing grasp of efficient wishes, inverted and boosted
by the cipher. a curious reconciliation for sacrificial privilege, among
unfavorable conditions. custom modified shoes shielded by furry blankets.
creamy faucet of lime, twos refunded in vain, too.. magazines are only
pretending. a conquest of bleached beaches, each one of its leeches are
screeching within reach.
your precious form is adorned.. with traces of what you said: "i'm still not
dead." we cry until seeing pieces of the sky, falling ecstatic to the worn
reflection, like a spare tire. the English language itself impaled.. a
passenger in lifetime's contagious landscape gets chopped up into rows and
columns, degrees of latitude and longitude, and then made stylish. my whole
childhood scrawled on the chalkboard, with the jazz bells ringing in
attendance, grammar absent. come and fetch a backwards graph without the
assurance of insurance. the profane sculpture is in a coma. resist business
and steal freedom. free to sing noisy falsettos and painted tension, to
trust your immaculate scraps to the sons of malfunction. expensive sins of
epic caliber: in black and white, true or false. an ordinary folk type
serving up a dish of fresh compassion with lettuce. still abbreviated by
your reliable and trusty primal instinct. corroded razors distort the fused
facts, existing only for amusement. pretentious nostalgia is just a footnote
to psychotic discoveries. that is to say, i envy your injury.. with the
dimension of a tunnel exchange, sailboat caricature & shuttle archetype,
swiveling pivots stay superior to the toilet, which has somehow managed to
become obsolete.
fruit punch is lush in a hurry and laze rampant. girls are covered with too
much makeup & perfume. fringe binges out on a barren plateau, fishnets
cocked and loaded in hotel lobbies. what a novel idea. leaflet brochures and
thesis dissertations resurrected in the classified section.. on billboard
charts, bad ratings and poor public relations. sponsors have been squelched
due to squalor. just swerving over the double yellow, no directionals, given
to avoid explanations. strictly jeopardized gambling, cartilage in tune to
the jackpot academics but barricaded by the shortstop. seagulls perched on
mossy dusk, but not obligated to the underpaid rubber duckling. bathtub
vagrant keeps whiskey under galloping saddle, harboring frosty chins and
frothy broths. tender harvest wreaths shepherded and sealed in solstice's
shed, where the maestro worker is slashed. deprived of the depraved side
effects of a hazy home. cables crested and caressed on the chest of a
cyclone. earn respect, do not detect berries on the ridge, rescued from
paying rent by telegraph, a warrant for arrest. from start to finish
greetings and goodbyes nothing more than dumpster brims overflowing glove
compartments. viable curbs for annual herbs. collecting corrected verbs. the
elementary experience of countdown until doom. merely referencing the
dejection of tranquility's crescent cascading downpour.
salvaged lungs lost and found for hide and seek. blushes unleashed at the
junction of holiday antics with ballistic missile trajectories. social
prodigy spins effortless wit. the concourse is in accordance with the laws
of accordions. sidetracked on a refreshing tangent, bloodshot beverages
mythical and legendary. arguably ambiguous, the hassle of unflattering
friendship and instant replay.. nursed back to life, snatched up in a
tongue-tied twisting truth of tooths. no proofs, just evacuated envelopes.
cities confirm individual worthlessness. recognition engenders ideas of
competitive successes. brothers and sisters, deposits are withdrawn.
floating fluids above a field and radioactive clouds creeping in. the
children all random and ungrateful. forward is not at all when you are
stumbling in suggestive gestures. the detached introvert quietly
contemplates crippling absurdity over a horrible haiku: speak & spell
spilled slip-slide splish-splash blood spattered split butter spits acid
blotter with spinning gall bladders expressing distress to especially
disheveled shovels, lovely.
Lynn Souiedan
Clay
~~~~
It sits there,
the white ceramic teapot picked
from the endless piles and rows
of white ceramic ware,
the plates all slightly warped,
the spaces in between uneven.
I could even spin the one on top around.
Bargains.
My teapot with the lid that doesn=92t want
to come off
how the shadows light and dress up
your ordinary surface,
a surface lacquered in ordinary.
I want my hands to claim clay,
feel its smooth ribbons oozing between my fingers,
thick, wet, dirty.
I want my hands to pound, caress, mould
a chunk of the earth
into a white teapot
that I can rest my ordinary cheek against
when I am tired.
When My Father Died
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They told me he died on a piece of paper,
a telegram that came to an old address of mine.
I saw his grave last night, walked there,
reading the names and inscriptions chiselled
on the headstones of those around him.
Everyone was a loving someone in the end and after,
if not during. Rocks rising to the eternal.
Well, a hundred years maybe.
I stopped on the grass by his grave,
grass so green it hurt my eyes.
Grass that green could only be in a dream.
His grave took a length and height
those surrounding him didn=92t,
the way things in our dreams and lives do
in our minds.
I never thought it would ever be like this.
There were no last rites of the tongue, the heart.
Sadly, there was no end to end for him and me.
There was nothing but a box I wanted to dig up, pry open,
only a man in there I wanted to shake, to hear cry out,
say something, anything, to me,
I lay the red carnations that filled my arms down
as proof of some kind and left my dream
walking along the cemetery's cobbled path, imagining
how the stones would glisten in a light spring rain.
I am Frozen
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am frozen in the vastness of my kitchen sink,
ploughing paths through soap bubbles that have been
tinged shades of blue and pink by florescent lights.
Plants in pretty pots under raised blinds
edge a window in a room across the drive.
Shadow sits on the asphalt between us
and on hammered wood.
Man has exiled the sun.
>From behind the upward bursts of green foliage
a dark form rises from a chair in that room.
A plate slips through my fingers,
ceramic on soapy skin squeaking rudely.
Whitewashed
~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night as I lay still,
the cool blanket of night covering me,
I thought I felt your heart beat.
I tried to grasp it, to hold on to it in the darkness,
but its pulse weakened and slipped away
into the mouth of the dawn.
This morning I walked the deserted city streets,
somehow oddly comforting,
the world around me whitewashed
by a crisp, early morning air.
I thought I felt its heart beat once,
but then it slipped away
into the bowels of the day.
A Small Brown Bird Speaks
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is very little kindness here,
only a raw, savage reality
that is heartbreaking in its finality.
It is without any compassion of the kind you know.
You do not see this. You do not see me.
You do not see me scouring the frozen earth
for that which will sustain me one more day.
You do not see me pecking these meager bits
from the hard, crusted snow.
I could not leave with the last good days of autumn,
escaping this bleak existence as others did.
My fragile body could not make that long journey.
I was forced to stay behind, unable to flee nature=92s cruelty,
unable to save myself
from that which birthed me.
In a fleeting moment you see me in my quandary,
see my small, brown, feathered body fluttering
about on the ground in the cold.
You watch me from behind a curtained window,
for a fleeting instance having substance in your world.
You open a door, though you would rather not,
and throw in my direction what you have no use for,
what is stale and difficult to digest.
Yet, I accept your offering thankfully,
though stale and brittle it prolongs my survival
for one more day.
Yes, I am forced to live these truths unseen,
trusting my epitaph will be written.
New Chairs
~~~~~~~~~~
It doesn't matter now,
The week, the bustle,
everything -
Oh, how we want
as I wanted my new chairs,
then heard in a whisper, "They're
only chairs."
The night is not black.
How could it be?
That colour never suited you.
It fell from the sky with your laugh,
and sits on the floor among the shavings
of my new chairs.
The Storm
~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday, I walked in a field broken
by the fierceness of an autumn storm.
The branches from ravaged maples and evergreens were
strewn across the ragged length and width of it.
The sodden grass oozed beneath my feet
Thick, black mud dirtied the polished leather of my boots
with each slow, careful step I took.
Dandelions lay dead all around me, like brave, fallen soldiers,
their bright, yellow heads now a deathly shade of brown,
and already, wild mushrooms were sprouting in dark corners.
David Sparenberg
BETRAYAL
~~~~~~~~
Two people had the same experience. It was the experience of the voice
freedom; it was the experience of the voice of God. For this, they were
arrested. For this, they were detained against their wills and tortured.
Together—and yet sequestered in terrifying isolation they "disappeared from
ordinary existence. From routines and habits. From friends and family"
from everyday sight.
Two people. Named Shlomo and Rivka. Two people. Named Juan and Maria.
Two people. Named Amal and Nuha. Like Eve, life's mother. Like Adam, God's
man.
One of them succumbed to pain and indignities. He died with the stammering
bruise of a mystery on his lips. He died discolored and swollen.
The other, she said, Yes. Yes, I understand now. Before was a critical
error in judgment when I was under a foreign influence. It was a kind of
disease, an emotional disorder, a sort of shared hallucination. That is
what I would call it: a shared hallucination. Such things are unusual,
immoral, but they happen. It’s pathetic and needs to be corrected.
Honestly, I needed help; I was quite desperate. The authorities were
absolutely right in intervening. Intervention was responsible. To the
State. To the People. And… A hesitation. A lingering, uneasy silence,
with shallow, rapid breathing. The suppressed, subtle scars of trauma.
Then: I am grateful. I can now return to normal, productive life.
Today, I am again a valuable citizen.
Later, the survivor walked away from the anus of Satan on her discolored
and swollen legs, with the pain and indignity of serial violation aching
between her thighs. No longer a woman. A body. A soul. And… To a neighbor
she confided: I loved Juan; I loved my Sholmo; loved my Amal (Amal the Arab);
but I will never, never be able to forgive him. I tell you, privately, in a
secret confession, the stone of a whisper, I feel betrayed.
© 2008 David Sparenberg
This writing is from the forthcoming volume FLIGHT, A Book of Winged Words:
Parable, Prose Poems, Reflections and Visualizations. Watch for FLIGHT,
available soon through Amazon.com.
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 - 2008 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.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
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