INTRODUCTION
Scarlet Night....................................Patricia Kriegel
Whores I - XII...................................Kerith Edwards
Because Missionaries did it There................Holly Day
This Must Be
August 6, 1996
Reverie..........................................Marc Awodey
A River
We Never Knew The Sea
Safety Glasses
The Old Men
Memphis
The Poem.........................................Moshe Benarroch
Ask For That Love Again
The Hammass Terrorist
Gold Grilles
the road
in a few thousand years
Mother Death
POST SCRIPTUM
Koan
Scarlet Night ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By Patricia Kriegel My wife will die tonight. How dare she lock me from her daughter's room? I am the wolf. I have hunted my prey and keep them under my roof. Her daughter tells tales how her mother plans to leave. She will not leave by the door. I will put her to rest on the floor. She can not keep her daughter from me. I have tasted the fruit so sweet. She is like a cherry ready to fall from the tree. I will pick my cherry before she falls from life's adversities. I will pick my cherry and show her life's pleasures. I will give her treasures, if she ask for money. I will give my honey gold, if she ask for rubies. I will give her diamonds to wear upon her fingers. Her eyes are like diamonds from the sky. I will take her to be mine. I will give her wine and she will be mine. I will lay the finest of treasures at her feet and lick her feet. She will be mine. I will melt her mother down like hot wax. Her beauty will always be remembered. I will see her beauty through the eyes of her child. Her child will live on to please me, and to be mine. I will take this child while hot and mold her into shape. She will think her mother killed herself. I will make it look like my wife killed herself. Her death will not be on my mind. I will let my wife choose how she will die tonight, if she chooses by the blade. Her bloodstain would rest on the floor and door. There would be bloodstains all over the house, if she chooses by my hand. I would take by the hand, choking her until she's out of breath. There she would lie like a wounded pet out of breath. I could break her neck, but than they would no it was not suicide. Than my name would be stained. I would be remembered as the man that killed his wife. Than I would be locked in prison and never, taste the cherry of my life. My wife you will die tonight. Choose, how you shall die. You can either take these pills or I will break your neck. How will you die tonight? If you kill me, everyone will know that you took my life. Why my husband must, I die tonight. Do you choose my daughter who looks like me? Do you think that she will stay with you? She is yet young and doesn't know her mind. Everyone will find out that you chose my daughter over me. I curse the day that she was born. I curse they way I must die tonight. Oh God hear me tonight. Don't let me die this way. Let me die old in my grave, that I may live to have grandchildren one day. Let not the wolf kill me tonight that has trapped me under his roof. I am under his hoof. Let me escape the roof that falls. I fall down on my knees and pray that you take all poisons from me tonight. Let him not have my child. I pray you give this young prey a mind to run. Too, run with the wind to never be caught by the scavenger this way. If he take my child, he will kill me twice. When he tires of her she will die one night this way. Save my fawn oh God and let her run away. Save her from being prey. For the hungry wolf has tasted her blood, and he chooses her blood over mine. Cleanse my child oh God. Make her crimson as white as snow. Let my child be pure again. Let no harm come to her I pray. No one can save you my dear. Your God doesn't hear you. Why should he hear your prayers? Your body will be cold in two hours, and the dogs that you pet. They will run from you my pet. The dogs will never want to lie against you again. They will smell your stinky corpse and run wild and I will have the child. The perversion will take over this house. No more conversations will I have with you as far as what you will and won't do. The child will do everything I ask her to do. I have already started molding her. She likes money. She will do anything for money and I make a lot of money. I give her everything she needs. I will be the father she never had. No longer will locks be put on my doors. This is my house no locks are allowed on doors. I leave you alone to die behind this door with your pets.
KERITH EDWARDS
WHORES
~~~~~~
Dedicated to the Whores of Amsterdam
Whores 1
~~~~~~~~
Cash puppies
Sweet holes charming
dick fires to quiet
themselves.
But more tits
quake the damn fuckers
back to still-stand,
must-have payers
for her
self-inflicted brutalities
Buy me.
I am twat.
But more,
soft. And you,
you can pay to
squeeze away,
my particular parts cost,
honey, sweety-pie
darling, fuck my
dry thing.
Stiff rubbered
drumstick dummies
idiot fools,
paying me to murder
myself while
you
murder me.
You come
Here!
Gimmie whatta want
Damn night strider
Money folded
Just give it here.
Suck you off forever,
And I would
But you blow it--
the double wad of your own death.
And I am life itself.
Whores 2
~~~~~~~~
Oooooooh, that's right...
I swing and sidle
in my heart,
cannot do it
for honest
like it
should be.
Gotta be free
to do the dumbo
freaky thing
that I am.
For myself.
It's for myself.
Got you,
all motherfuckers,
palmed up,
mine.
Got you all.
Damn.
I.
Be.
Fine.
Short cool fuse
Aching 'til I can get away.
Whores 3
~~~~~~~~
Pump. Pack.
Pay up now.
I'll be sweet.
Bills in the slot
Dough safe,
Don?t hurt me!
The red button means,
'Fuck you, john'
Cause I do it
for bread.
You do it for bone.
I do it fast
Hole in the uni-verse
cake walk
Dead mousey heart
Violent bullied
woman
Fakey flower
Your candy sliced
quick up the back
Whatever, can do!
Kissy me
For a price
I?ll keep your
Mind
where it's always
been.
Maintenance babes
for hire.
Sucker.
Whores 4
~~~~~~~~
I don?t walk
I stand.
I can feel my tits
like canon balls
crushing your
crotch-heavy lengths.
My power.
Do you get it?
I feel nothing.
But dig cock, sure.
My power pays.
You just
have no idea
what it's
like,
to be you.
Whores 5
~~~~~~~~
john, john!
Oh well, he was sweet.
Came in
Smiled
and he wanted to touch my hair.
Almost made him
pay extra
for that.
Talked for a sec
Money on the dresser.
Oh, johnny!
He starts with,
'I take this medication.'
Sure, honey.
In other words,
NO BONE.
Cool!
Got my dough
For a smile
long hair
and
my
fresh
breath.
Whores 6
~~~~~~~~
I am tired, john
But,
I need your bucks
Fresh spider-webbed
bills on a
can full of rockets.
Please boys
Stack it up for me
with a careful
blessing.
I'm tired
with a minimum
3 j's to go
2-night.
Crashed in a
file cabinet
That's my life,
The drawer
of my room
is the place
where he
spends.
But I'm so tired,
john.
Tonight is it.
No more
Sacrements for
the raunchy
philosophers.
I've got to
Get some rest.
Whores 7
~~~~~~~~
Crack-fired me
Cock-fired up me
Damn, can't take
another stiffy!
But I will.
Sure, baby.
I just grab
their cocks
jam, yank
fire away.
Then I'm good.
Move on.
Got my fanatics
lined up,
lined up to boot
never ending.
Whacked--you can't
save me!
Whores 8
~~~~~~~~
Believe it!
Take a walk
Look at her
Bitch actually likes
to fuck,
lying to dumb niggers
for a lay?
Nymph.
Smack hoochy.
'Sluts' like to screw.
But whores are
Jack-off artists
With dry concaves.
Man haters
Fucked to bits
But never
really
Fucked.
Make a face
Choose the theme
It's so dead
I can't
even write another
word.
Whores 9
~~~~~~~~
What a backwash night
Dude came back
2 hours later
3 johns later
3 stacks-o-mac later
Came back for another round
Only,
this time his face
wore a cracker jack
ring lie
He knew my
racket
My ball game
the way I keep
myself. My rhyme.
He came back.
I Opened up my door.
Heeelllooo,
Held back.
Hundred in his hand
folded under my nose,
lying mother.
As if
I didn't know
He was gonna cut me
this time.
Man! As if
I didn't know
from that look
what he was gonna do.
I Closed up my door.
He
stood there
looking in
folded the hundred
once more, in four.
Stood there long time
looking in.
As if
I'd break.
As if
I didn't know
the formula for love
the formula for hurt
the catch phrases and whinings
of pain.
Fool.
Whores 10
~~~~~~~~~
johns come and go
in a flow
to and fro.
Cats in the wind
crap shooters
thick skinned.
Big dickies
little squirties
purple ballies
sticky hurties.
Whores 11
~~~~~~~~~
Have any idea how much it would cost
To get out of here?
30 butt bops
pays my rent for half a year.
20 sucks with bare tits
has my debt clear.
60 hand jobs
brings my college dreams near.
So quite honest
it don't take much
to get out of here.
Whores 12a
~~~~~~~~~~
I am going to get off my stump
walk down town
for a fragrant, lacey hump.
Thin, juicy creatures
compressed titties
aberrated features.
Kissy lippy
Christallmighty on
my tippy.
Got my thingy,
back to hotel
call my wife,
Knife!
Whores 12b
~~~~~~~~~~
My little street
red banner of lamp light
Dames percing,
perching hot.
Tap tap tap
my ring on my glass
tap tap
hey baby
tap...
How much?
Suck 50
Fuck 50
bra of, 25.
X-tra!
If you can't
blow,
cost you mo
for me
to touch. it. you.
HOLLY DAY
Because Missionaries Did It There
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Calamitous children reflect a society
we have forgotten. Our poor peons
are your breathing, hung dry
and your breathing, concentrate on more helpful things
than crazytalk and logic. She woke up one day and opened her mirror,
found the bewildered old friend she had lost
in her dreams. Skeletal fingers kissed back
from inside the glass and whispered,
"This time, you've gone too far."
Rebellious children reflect a society
we have abandoned. Our teats of missionary eyes
sweep over the burnt landscape of your body, listen
to your breathing, concentrate on more helpful things
like planned drive-bys to take away the pain,
an homage to an artificial limb,
the way your clothes mask and cover you
deformed flesh. Today,
I am a connoisseur, the left hand
of appreciation, awkward in my adoration. My fingers
rub the tedium and recovery from your face.
Those people are still in my house.
With the eyes of the devoured.
With my cat.
HOLLY DAY
This Must Be
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can talk better than my father. When he was a little boy, desire
walked on lean legs down the halls of his sleep, shadows of a mother
who couldn't stand a real miracle. The world
could snore, wrangle or tear the invention of baby booties to shreds
as far as she cared, a diamond big as a parfait breathlessly
running into rooms drunk, seeking some sort of escape from the infant
folded into the earth at her feet.
I have seen my father's dreams, twisted up into soft green blankets
my own mother left behind. My father, who said of any gambler, "Love
is both under and above the edge of a sword." He grew up quickly,
grew old quickly, haunted by ghost violinists watching with amused faces,
watching the end of something I heard the screams of my father, pulled
apart his
crumpled broken wings with cold fingers I saw
myself in his dead black eyes. He had written me out of his dreams.
HOLLY DAY
August 6, 1996
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
twenty miles past a home I never knew
a thousand miles away is a home I've never been
planning faces to wear when my parents arrive
to meet my eight-month-old son
and the father of my child
wondering if my father still has brown hair
or if it's gone all white and sea-urchin-stiff
if my mother looks matronly, like my own grandma does
or if she's still a punk rocker, thin woman,
rough edges
twenty miles ago I felt the old dreams all die
ahead is a promise
and a threat
of a new life.
MARC AWODEY
Reverie
~~~~~~~
Men barked nonsense on Lunar hills,
deaf to the music of our moon.
When her glassine sands were pressed,
to transmit clips of harlequin white;
conquest illuminated the dome of night.
To understand why her ungodly face
appears to mourn;
ask why we strolled the lunar hills,
and danced upon her virgin humps-
our follicles, and fragile toes
encased in air conditioned boots.
And when each burnt out nerve
is soothed
to see our silver mirror ebb and wax,
as spheres and hemispheres descend
to dream in undreamt volumes
deepened by a drum of tidal urge-
perhaps our sable voices
will return
so that we sing,
to sail like drunken Greeks
through timeless stars, and stir
the rainless latitudes that sweep
and span the Sea of Tranquility.
MARC AWODEY
A River
~~~~~~~
They scooped their watery beds
where a silver river wrinkled and rose
to raft the fry that failed,
over embryos, and last year's leaves.
I followed arcs of salmon,
reflecting sun, they spawned
on gravel gems;
costumed in false red jaws.
They scooped their watery beds
where a silver river wrinkled and rose
to raft the fry that failed,
over embryos, and last year's leaves.
MARC AWODEY
We Never Knew the Sea
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We knew a seemingly endless thread
of peppery beach and beach grass,
we watched an azure haze enfold horizon-
but we never knew the sea.
What we spoke of is sincerely lost
though could shoreline be refound
the sound of sounding lighthouse
would not acquiesce to variance
beyond an ashen, inevitable sound.
If hollowness could again disperse
all shade of ghost below
an empty western field-
sandpipers
would not conjure fewer risks,
frail rows of curling waves would break
in strains that do not murmur any less;
and yet your sound
would not resound a sea-
for we never knew the sea.
MARC AWODEY
Safety Glass
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Encapsulated;
turquoise 20mg.
slouched inside
a sweltering automobile
reactions
shut off one by one.
Workers
take out noontime meals
from foil bags
and bright brown bottles.
Dream they would dream
if time allowed
of god knows what
in this situation. Just so,
they sit in cars
head back, bent by vinyl
atmospheric conditions.
Lounging
in supermarket parking lots.
Procrustean rows of secret lives
are outlined by curves
of safety glass.
Let us, imitate
turtle eggs heaped beneath sand
and pray
that the strongest among us
will question nothing.
Be more concerned with feet
than footprints.
MARC AWODEY
The Old Men
~~~~~~~~~~~
Today i pulled out one of my teeth
just thinking
about the old men reading
their poems at my house
last night
all Glowing Pate bearded
exchanging memories
comparing prisons
personal Vancouvers
in images all
reeking
of
Merwin-
MARC AWODEY
Memphis
~~~~~~~
Underneath painted columns at Memphis
mystery rites were once performed
midst introits for Isis, Osiris
their son Horus,
and his brother Anubis.
Underneath Tyrian hashish plumes
draped in wreaths 'round midnight,
censers and cymbals bloom in lilac
majesty beyond our
Hubbel telescope.
Pomegranate seeds and cinnamon
spice the nadir of my demitasse-
as censers and cymbals bloom
lilac radiance,
frail bean stalks of Camel smoke
spiral into flowery flights
of aquamarine tin ceiling.
Fading beyond the Beal Street jail,
walking toward Jefferson Davis
Waterfront park,
another blasted tourist
with clammy hands blends
into the heat of Memphis.
Underneath painted columns
at Memphis, mystery rites
were once performed midst introits
for Isis, Osiris, their son Horus,
and his brother Anubis.
MOSHE BENARROCH
The Poem
~~~~~~~~
first there is a sound
a familiar and distant
sound
coming from the twelfth century
in Granada or Lucena
then
less than a
second
later
there is a rhythm
like a lonely drum
in a high mountain
played by the leaves and the branches
sometimes subtle
sometimes noisy and unbearable
then there are the words
a line or sometimes two
when written the
words start flowing
as if they were waiting for
the door to be opened
sometimes
it is just one poem
mostly
there are hundreds
waiting for me
to write them
no matter how hard
I tell them
there are not many
readers left
to read them
they all want to be written
screaming at me
convincing me
asking and begging
but I have to make the choice
which ones to write
which ones to leave.
MOSHE BENARROCH
Ask For That Love Again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The one we couldn't believe would happen
the love when we didn't know we were in love
the love when I couldn't write a love poem
so busy was I loving you,
now I have so much time to write you poems
but you don't ask for my love
you are in front of me but you are memories
and in your eyes it is not me I see
but the idea and the image you have made of me
and I say now if she only asked
for that love again
but there is no again there is no going back
our cells have been destroyed and remade so many times
we are not those two young crazy lovers
we are not who we are
and our cells have been given to other creatures
sitting between us as a sun
not letting us see each other
siting between us as a sea
not being able to see the other shore
now if you only asked
I would give you that love again
but you can't ask and that love
would not be the same
the look in your eyes the color of my eyes have changed
they are looking elsewhere for someone else
asking for that love again
that love that will make me forget my pride
my shipwrecked literary career my lack of readers
that love so much like malt whisky expensive and making forgive
without a hangover in the morning
please ask for that love again
ask for that same love
but you won't ask you are trying to forgive me
you are trying to appease me you are trying all the time
instead of asking of demanding
it is your it is my right to have that love again
if we had it once if we lost it if we know its taste
we have the right to that love again,
we can only blame ourselves, life and God.
MOSHE BENARROCH
The Hamass Terrorist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
after Wysalva Czymborska "The Terrorist" and
dedicated to Asaf and
Meital and to all the victims who lost legs, lives and futures.
1.
In a few moments he will blow himself
he is young, he has no children
he has no wife, in a moment
nothing will be left of him.
No one will know who he was
he left home years ago
and disappeared
forever.
I am sitting very close
drinking an espresso
and smoking a cigarillo
my friend asks me to come with him
to the place of the bomb
I tell him I am tired
which is not true
and that I will wait for him.
he doesn't know and I don't know
that in a few minutes
the terrorist will explode
the hope for peace will explode
and that Meital's leg will explode
and her brother Asaf will go to heaven.
Meital's husband, a Doctor
will hear the bomb and run to help the wounded
not knowing that his wife and her brother are there.
I am savoring the espresso
It is a sunny day in Tel Aviv
and after this bomb
nothing will be the same again for months
people will be afraid to come back here
Dizengof street will be deserted.
No one can stop him now
it is too late
he will die for Allah
and for being young, virgin
and indoctrinated.
Even if I go there I can't stop him.
My friend disappears.
2.
Suddenly there is a boom
and then there is silence
15 seconds of silence
like the moment before God created the world
or it is like the silence before
being born
It is a screaming silence
that can cut the air,
then there are police cars
stopping the silence
first come the Peugeot 205
one, two, three,
fifteen of them,
then the ambulance comes
then people come from the place
they have to tell the story
they speak to everybody and to themselves
a mother doesn't know what happened to her daughter
people are making phone calls
with telephones and mobiles
very soon the whole system collapses
this is the center of Israel
Dizengof center in Purim
everybody is here or could be here.
I sit,
hear what happened
don't know what happened to my friend
(he reappeared 5 hours later)
I am left speechless
for half an hour
I stand
try to talk to the waitress
I can't make a sound
I go back to my seat
drink the water left.
This half hour
was the most
scary poem I ever wrote.
3.
I think of the whole day
then I am really afraid.
How I skipped the place of the bomb
a place where I always go or pass through
I took many side streets
and my friend didn't understand why
he just followed me
I wanted all the time to go back to Jerusalem
"Half hour in front of the sea
That's enough for me"
he said
but he wanted the coffee
"let's drink it here
in Sheinkin
and then go back"
but he insisted
he wanted to drink it in Frishman,
and so on for the whole day.
He has promised not to insist again
and just follow me.
4.
My religious friend said it is a sign
but a sign of what
of being right or being wrong.
What kind of smoky shadowy cloudy
world
is this
that when there is a sign
we can't decipher it.
MOSHE BENARROCH
Gold Grilles
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who are these rich people
these desperate people
Why do they do to look so ill
making others believe their money is better
Who are these sad people
expected to always look great
to never become old
to never be ill
to always be happy
in what kind of prisons
do these rich people live?
MOSHE BENARROCH
the road
~~~~~~~~
the road gets longer
as the city of our dreams
gets closer.
MOSHE BENARROCH
In a Few Thousand Years
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a few thousands years they'll say about us:
They had great poetry
but their technology was primitive
they used heavy materials for everything
They'll say:
They had great poetry
but their medical system was hell
they had to kill to save lives
they needed snakes to take care of people
and their medical system
was the very idea of a bad system
doing more harm than good
They had great poetry
but for some reason the most famous books
were written in a genre called novels
a strange way of complicating
simple stories
They had great poetry
but their world was a world of racism
they had black people and black poetry
gay poetry and minorities poetry
African Asian and western
and no one was equal to noone nowhere
They had great poetry
but they loved making wars
and constructing heavy weapons
and killing people and destroying cities
this was the most common sport of that time
They had great poetry
but their poets were mostly poor and unknown
They had great poetry
and anybody could write
they didn't need diplomas and studies
to do their craft
They had great poetry
but their poetry was useless
a few thousands years ago
they thought that only science
could help people until
it destroyed everything.
And at the end of the lecture
a young boy will say:
Maybe that's what's needed
to write good poetry...
Because we have no good
poetry today.
MOSHE BENARROCH
Mother Death
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here they come all colours your choice
here they come you can chose your death
we have viruses car accidents cancers aids
we have good marketed deaths we have rare death
how about old-fashioned death like tuberculosis
soon we will bring back the plague
while we find a new potent virus
that kill in a few hours
we are developing them in our laboratories
we have retro-death or sci-fi death
and you can now die in your bed
the hospitals are full
no matter how many we open
we have patients twice the beds.
this is not Mr. death anymore
this is mother-death.
Koan ~~~~ There was never a journey that did not end in death.
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. 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 . 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 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!
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