August 2007
VOL XV, Issue 8, Number 172
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
AE Reiff
Gardens and Grapefruits
CONTENTS
Lydia Shutter
Ask me
Back Door
make it through
faded memoirs
A Smile
Final Page
Don Coonrod
Closeness
Fading Light
Trickle Down
Eels
Of Lords
Papa Osmubal
INTERPRETATION OF A PAINTING BY AN UNKNOWN ARTIST
THE DUTCH INVASION OF MACAO. 1607
CHUNG CHAO CHIT: MID-AUTUMN FESTIVAL. MACAO
FAREWELL
BARD
FLOWER
BEGGAR
MACAO
DAY'S END: MACAO
CHASER
POET
IRONY
DEMISE
ayotunde ademokun
LOVE
THIS HEART I SEEK
WAITING AT THE ALTAR
WHEN THE NIGHTS GROW COLD
A THOUSAND TIMES
Santiago Villafania
A Country of my Own
Stairways of Pay-yo
Renascence
David Sparenberg
RED PATH PONY
JOINS
NOCTURNE
Corey King
Like An Ocean of Red...
Flora
The Genesis Reveals
Ion Hand
POST SCRIPTUM
Anthony Nannetti
ROLL OVER PATHAGORAS
AE Reiff
Gardens and Grapefruits
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When our neighborhood sold like lemon plat on fairy tale it came time to pick.
The grapefruit turned unusual colors and our block went on alert. We drew
straws. Assigned to watch a moo cow guy named Penn I can reveal no more. The
names are changed to protect the innocent.
Penn Paulsen was a professor of religion caught in a lie about vegetables.
You think it venial if he doesn't know better, the tomatoes aren't hurt, but
if he fibs about the garden what else hides under the surface?
I don't know how the neighborhood turned all professor, art, religion and
poetry on one half block. We didn't have any scientists so I tried to fill
the bill, gave aloe to botanists but ruined experiments. I'm scared of ruining
them all. It is a diatomaceous earth.
Over years we had a friendly competition. He nicknamed his garden Jack Perk.
I ordered email lilies from Jorge Borg. Argued out of lima trees, he planted
Ricinus vine. Had you been in his kitchen, kibitzed in the breezeway, you'd
know. He gave me a Bauhinia. I give him the benefit of the doubt.
Our neighborhood holds the garden principle:
A golden crocus
fills the cup
of ox law
and ranunculus.
Looking out the window now I see butterflies flutter his manganate. Maybe it's
a sulfate. What about the brown spots, tags on the citrus? Why does the aqua
vitae look weather proof? I should have been suspicious; I thought it was the
mulch.
The choices are simple enough. Get exposed to vagrants rafting the canals by
night or kids lingering at bus stops, mariachi music at three AM where the
neighbors clean their yards up once a month, or ice cream trucks that play
Beethoven's Fifth when the Gold Convention comes.
It ain't Holland.
You think the choices better further out, fine, go ahead and move. We stick
with pizza delivery and graffiti here; we live in the cannibal zone.
At one time or other our mayor, governor and sheriff have all blamed the
siege of Hezekiah on Babylonian hordes. But this is America not the Andes!
You're safe unless there's digging in the yard.
John and Nathan took a warning to strangers when animals disappeared:
"Penn'll eat cha." But no one hears.
Local forensics did a stage two check, searched for footprints in soil
overturned near walls, checked indigenes and indigents, left these clues:
1. Incidence of street people down? Little changes in ozone tip this off.
2. Door to door salesmen, itinerants down? What do they know we don't?
3. Look out, they said, for aberrant behavior, dogs walking backward, stray
limbs on the ground, people drinking irrigation water, grapefruits turning
brown, anything out of the norm, city workers who dig the same street over
again.
Finally the non sequitur came when we realized the problem. Moo Cow was eating
his students. They went in, but none came out.
Our teenager argued this activity protected, that it was an eating disorder
at which we wink. He brought up chaos theory, the genetically predisposed,
said victims were willing accomplices. For the sake of science I installed
see-through curtains the better so to see. You can take it as a reference if
there are problems in your yard. Is there barbecuing? Consider what is known.
J. D. Salinger is a good example. That's his real name. Everybody knows. This
grad visited his prof at home. You ever visit your prof at home? For dinner!
It hurts to live and let live. I saw J. D. coming down the street, ominously
named for body parts, for feet, turning the drive. He parked over by the
neighbors to not call attention, hedged up against the curb. Pretty soon
characters began to appear in white socks. Where's it safe to live at these
days of spare parts, Kidney Lane?
Great mounds of earth were being moved, pitched in the alley and carted off.
Penn was eating by the planet load. But what's under the surface?
One night when he was at dinner I went over to look, took core samples, ran
my pencil down the soil, smooth as peanut butter to the top. Gas chromatographs
are being done on lemons. Something will turn up.
The suspense was great; then I went over and asked. He didn't deny it all,
said he'd done a chapter on the Abenaki, cannibal giants with hearts of ice
that lived at the bottoms of canyons. If you want you can get a copy.
Lydia Shutter
Ask me
~~~~~~
You expect the answer
to a query never quite vocalized.
Oh, it hangs on the precipice
at the tip of your tongue often enough
but you never quite allow it to jump, do you?
Questionable quotations
are easily exchanged by warm lips
in the mouth of a dark evening
but the answer you seek stays hidden
in the oxygen between us
refusing to strip naked and run free.
Do you have a desire to know - -
or perhaps you have known the desire?
My muscles are tired of tensing
when you are near
it is time to burst through facades
and face reality.
Ask me
Back Door
~~~~~~~~~
Dreaming a nameless-faceless fantasy
unexpected crumbs of love
create a path straight to your back door.
It is there your words drop
like gentle kisses on my heart and mind.
Spicy innuendo scatters in the breeze
since it matters not what others believe.
Our unlocked rapport puts the flowers in my hair
and the sweetness of candy in my mouth.
Knowing your back door is open just for me
makes my heart sing a tune of fragrant familiarity!
make it through
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"vulnerability is not a viable option"
you told me that years ago
and it still rings true today
so this morning I tucked
my heart into faded denims
hoping my motion was not transparent
and forced myself to skip through the day
though my weight was nearly doubled by burdens
your words were with me to help me smile
and soon I was whistling your happy tune
tonight thoughts of you will fluff my pillow
check neath the bed for ghoulies
and turn out the light
just before cuddling neath the covers
bed bugs will not bite
and I will dream sweetly
confident dark thirty will grin at me once again
and your memory and I will make it through.
faded memoirs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the water gently ripples
as if protected by the bridge
posed above
the air is delicate
cowering from the vibration
of the whip-or-will's call
there they float
the faded memoirs of her heart
navigating to a world unknown
A Smile
~~~~~~~
Mirth and merriment fade
just as last week's hair rinse.
Empty words she can barely hear
have reached their expiration date.
The void of her life
is now filled with slow footsteps
in the ever lengthening hallway.
Tying a ribbon of regret
round the core of her soul
she is an unwilling passenger
in a car driven by assumptions.
Her self esteem and humanness
lie buried at the depths
of life's mountain
till she excavates a smile
to mirror mine.
Final Page
~~~~~~~~~~
I drink in your laughter
aware tears may be the result
listen to the eloquence of your silence
when words would communicate more
look through the foggy window to your soul
realizing clear glass would not show me more.
Yes, imprinted between the covers of your book
I find pages well worth turning
and a spine that will not often bend.
Oh, how I take great care never to reach
your final page.
Don Coonrod
Closeness
~~~~~~~~~
It isn't in Webster's dictionary,
but closet is there a recess, locker,
cold storage, storeroom.
And sometimes a storeroom is closest
to what closeness really is-a heavy
burden of truth weighing down, in or
outside love.
Closeness can be plebeian, an old
Blanket thrown across the back of a mule
on a long, joyless journey.
But I see closeness as twins celebrating,
swirling on clouds of cosmic dust in a world
of uncertainty, their only reassurance
an undefined love, a destination unknown,
a mutual choreography they cherish.
Fading Light
~~~~~~~~~~~~
When you lie down in darkness, don't
be concerned about life-at its best
living is a foggy algorithm of getting
from day to day.
As to cremation versus burial, well
it's nonsense of course, souls already
afloat somewhere, bereft of cognizance,
if they are busy, are just riding chariots
upward or the reverse.
We lie down finally in beds we've made,
a lovely grove of black tulips perhaps,
or a chorus of softly rounded dahlias,
good season after season, their grey shadows
appointed somehow by fading light.
Trickle Down
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Numb, then thawing icicles
melting drop by drop-pure aqua
chastened by Spring, flowing
into the ground.
Sun follows it, and if I could rise
in lovely air, float in its joy somewhere
among the stars, I'd be the first to volunteer
thawing slowly, dripping, drop by drop
over a desperate, dry earth.
Eels
~~~~
Slippery eels in water,
I can imagine their feelings-
But it's an atmosphere few would
want to call home.
Slithering about, ingesting red worms
and algae-they're fascinating.
But I wonder, does God see in them
what he sees in me?
Of Lords
~~~~~~~~
I have been in your temples and
rode a bobbing camel next to you
as a youth; your glowing eyes,
burning with foresight, converted me.
Your tears shed in twilight are quasars
where my lovely dead live now, congregated
on wishful stars, waiting and waiting
for tomorrow.
They'll come yet, just listen to that roar
of the unimaginable-oh they will come!
Papa Osmubal, of Macau, South China
INTERPRETATION OF A PAINTING BY AN UNKNOWN ARTIST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His work declares him and his freedom
so let him create his own universe, his own dwelling place.
His pond (Critics, please, to him that is a pond, his pond!)--
his pond is teeming with koi in frozen motion.
The bubbles are more than just tiny bags of unneeded air:
they are worlds suspended in their own time and space.
THE DUTCH INVASION OF MACAO. 1607*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind knows exactly what to do:
it smells of blood
and the waves are angry claws
pouncing on boats and crags.
The fishermen are not out tonight.
This night is not like any other nights:
children are told to sleep early,
mahjong players are all home,
theaters closed and actors are night watches,
lamps are all off and the city is an owl
sitting and waiting in the dark.
The wind knows exactly what to do:
the sea will roar when we shout,
lightning will burst when we shout.
We are fireflies in the storm.
We are jagged shards ready to blaze.
*Note: 'The Dutch Invasion of Macao', was previously
published in #15 The Journal 2006. Thanks to Sam Smith
the editor for informing me of this.
http://members.aol.com/smithsssj/index.html
CHUNG CHAO CHIT: MID-AUTUMN FESTIVAL. MACAO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is past midnight, and the moon
is lost in the dark clouds
of a threatening typhoon.
The fireworks are exploding
in chorus with the mute lightning.
The wind is heavy
with the smell of melted candles.
It is dark all around, and now
our candle has died out too.
Now the only light I know
is the flame of your hugs and whispers.
FAREWELL
~~~~~~~~
The boat to Shenzhen
has left.
Now there is only
winter before me,
and fog, thick fog.
From this moment on
I'll start living in yesterday,
for today and tomorrow
are sure without sun.
The ripples
that wounded the waters
are tamed and stilled:
the boat to Shenzhen is gone,
its sound haunts.
BARD
~~~~
I grew wings:
and that is harrowing
Because wings are soul's
savagery made manifest
And when you grow
wings (which seldom
happens) Fire becomes
your language
Like birds
like wind
FLOWER
~~~~~~
A flower's artifice is its fire, so wily, so sure, so artful.
It begs you with its infantile innocence.
Then it hypnotizes you with its savage eyes.
And in a sudden it makes you blaze, sing.
Before you know it you are already its total slave:
it owns you, it commands you, and you can never fail it.
It never stops taming you, and you may call this poetry,
but I call this tyranny!
O that Despicable Despot
whose gaze is an accurate spear, a lightning
aimed perfectly at the heart, at the soul!
O that worst of all liars, of all impostors!
BEGGAR
~~~~~~
(Avenida da Praia Grande, Macau)
You possess only the gray shadow
of statue of Navegador Jorge de Alvares--
your home, your shelter against the sun.
Its raised left hand, rigid and commanding,
mimics your lame and mute rebellion.
Heavens too want to shout for you but voiceless.
And shall we bless and praise this city's fathers and their laws,
they erected bridges to arch above your head
when rains and nights send fever and cold?
And why should punishment and pain
come in the guise of love and charity?--
coins offer no value in this Eden of luxury and gold.
MACAO
~~~~~
(In the morning of the last visit of Portuguese President Jorge Sampaio,
prior to the city's revert on December 1999 to the Chinese authorities.
The city is the last European settlement in the East.)
The fog is on the roofs
of the ancient Iberian homes.
Say, it is the hair of the city-
or veil to its trembling face?
This city is an old man wearing white hair,
gaping blankly at the silent sea,
reminiscing its childhood.
This city is born to songs and flowers,
but tonight there is none: only its vast shadow,
only the non-rhythmic rustlings of curled dried leaves
falling and rolling on the avenidas.
Through the fog
I can clearly see
the sleepless eyes of this tired city
blinking, vague, deep, wondering, asking.
DAY'S END: MACAO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The city is an owl muted,
deafened, blinded
by the heavy rain. Drenched, perched
on its nest of granites and crags.
Soaked laborers
walk slowly
while sipping
their Tsingtao beer;
they are much like lazy turtles
enjoying the comfort of rain
and tardiness of time.
They look unloaded-
water and sweat wash
away their worries and pains.
CHASER
~~~~~~
Where, where am I, who glide
like a comet, going?-
I chase Death
to make him bright.
He the poor, the gray,
who possesses naught
but dust and rust.
I will lit him
will burn him
will introduce gems to him
will make him immune to darkness:
a bird, flaming, yes, a burning bird
whom to welcome with relief,
not with tears nor fears nor heartaches!
I will anoint him
with rainbows, with springs, with fragrance!
I will hug him, own him, keep him:
he, my brother, so colorless, so forlorn.
POET
~~~~
A licensed assassin
and arsonist-
his only weapons
are flower and eye.
He, the mercenary of gods!
He, the sacred anarchist
whose fury and pain
are as primeval as Parnassus!
IRONY
~~~~~
the king
abdicated
his throne-
he is
now free
DEMISE
~~~~~~
Why can we not accept death?-
because death is unknown;
or maybe because we have
not come to know our selves.
And death is always with us
because it knows us so well.
For if death does not know us
it can not ever conquer us.
Death does to us
what sun does to flowers.
Death is today unlived
and tomorrow unachieved.
ayotunde ademokun
My name is ayotunde ademokun, i am a girl of 24 years from lagos nigeria.
i am a final year student at the lagos state university studying french
language.
LOVE
~~~~
It makes the able man, ill
The sane man, crazy
The reserved man, free
The quiet man, wild
The happy man, sad
The handsome man, haggard
The wise man, foolish
The cool man, aggressive
The great man, small
The rich man, poor
Love
It makes all right, wrong.
THIS HEART I SEEK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This heart i seek is not my own
This treasure i desire is not for me
This pearl so beautiful belongs to another
One whose eyes cannot behold its beauty
One whose heart does not appreciate its value
One whose touch cannot caress like mine
This heart i seek is not my own
This love i sought belongs only to another.
WAITING AT THE ALTAR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eyes, swollen and red
nose, wet and running
head, heavy and spinning
i am a bride
waiting at the altar
head in my hands
confused and worried
down on bended knees
crying out my heart
but i am still waiting for you
i am a bride
waiting at the altar.
WHEN THE NIGHTS GROW COLD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When the nights grow cold
And the sky becomes grey
When the streets lie quiet
And look deserted
I lie on the bed
And stare at the ceiling
Longing to take your arms
When it feels so good
When the nights grow cold
This is what i do
A THOUSAND TIMES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A thousand times
I have wondered what you feel
For me in your heart
I have wondered if i live in your heart
And in your soul
As you do in mine
A thousand times
I have wondered why you have
Never told me you love me.
Santiago Villafania
A Country of my Own
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
and i measured your symmetry
with a gaze or a look
every curve and every contour
a slope or a mountain
that i have conquered
i transversed your horizon
with just a blink of an eye
tamed and rode the four winds
galloping in your green stables
i crossed your rivers on carabao's back
and lured the muses to know the secrets
of your first name and orient beginning
i learned your folktales and legends by heart
mythologized the loves and lives
of your sons and daughters in my verses
as if they were written a thousand years ago
i have lied to add colours and lease of life
to your golden age and renaissance
i have lied a thousand times even more
for your histories to be heard
amongst your own people who are losing
their legacy and the salt of their tongue
you are within my grasp Caboloan
Camelot of my imagination
you are the country of my own
right here in the province of my heart
where syllables palpitate
like the breathlessness of turtledoves
where words are red wine flowing
like the blood in my myocardial arteries
let me hear once more the bamboo songs
the lover's sonnets and serenades
the manag-anito's orisons
O let me hear
even the silence of your hillocks
before i fall into my darkest night
before i soar into my dreamful flight
rise up Caboloan and speak through my words
speak in your language dying for rebirth
until your children learns to lend their ears
listen to the voice of their inmost selves
hasten to the quickening
of their disquieted souls
speak before i fall into silence
before i give away my existence
and/or
turn into a reed or a blade of grass
Stairways of Pay-yo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i climbed the hills and mountains of scaled earth
the emerald stairways of Pay-yo where
the ancient ones tamed the storms and thunders
with words
with songs
with dances and rituals
communed with the unknown and the (un)dead
with the guardians and spirits of the place
O my ancestors! you all lied to me
where is the woodhenge that crowned solitude?
here i can feel the warm fingers of dawn
and the cold embrace of westering sun
but where are the anitos and the gods
who dwell on this terrestrial land or lair?
where is the stargate of Apolaki
where you can bend time and change hi(s)tory?
*Pay-yo - Rice Terraces
Renascence
~~~~~~~~~~
my poem anchored on a page
unworded like an angel
nailed and naked on a cross
some critics wanted it dead
because it is the bastard
child of my elegant brain
some poets unpoemed it with rage
because it mirrors the truth
about their lycanthropy
but it will not be silenced
my poem will feed their hunger
with fire and beautiful pain
till I is risen unscathed
from the depths of oblivion
David Sparenberg
RED PATH PONY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Red Path Pony
Dance of the Sun
Wind Song Dancer
I do not need to be told
what loneliness is.
I have shared the feelings of the Earth,
when her children are taken away.
Everywhere men grow like anger
and worse than choking weeds.
There is a way of life
that is a cancer.
We are part of this disease.
Red Path Pony
Dance of the Sun
Wind Song Dancer
There is a sickness
that extends from the flesh to the soul.
It is the pathogen of war.
It is the wendigo, the monster-cannibal
devouring its kin and kind.
We are not only victims,
but we are carriers as well.
Do not try to tell me
about the madness of addiction.
I have looked into the mirror of time
and seen the future of global violence.
Red Path Pony
Dance of the Sun
Wind Song Dancer
I have consecrated my heart to the Great Spirit.
I will not walk in the way of thieves and
murders. I want no part of
those who poison everything and given no healing
in return. Purity is not possible, but integrity
cries out for a guiding vision.
A person does not need to be
innocent to take the road less traveled,
to step away from guilt.
Red Path Pony
Dance of the Sun
Wind Song Dancer
I am not other than
the place where I am.
I am only an Earth-walker.
But I do not
need to be told what holiness is.
I have seen the circle
of the red tailed hawk
in the summer sky.
I have watched the black tail deer
in the autumn sanctuary of trees,
on the slope of the mountain.
I have come to understand
what the prayer of greenness is.
We all know that
peace is a blood word.
We know that peace is green.
Red Path Pony
Wind Song Dancer
19 June 2007
JOINS
~~~~~
Man of the south: Burning Man,
he burns in the wind.
Wind from the sun
burns skin of the earth.
Fire-man belongs to her,
his blue skinned lover.
Her hair is dark,
her legs are long;
brown eyed, spotted
like a fawn: golden pollen.
The wild sage of sun
cries out like a singer;
far to the south,
a love song thunders.
Everything the heart holds,
the wind burns.
And paints on the naked
skin of life.
We are warpaint
to be eco-warriors;
Ho! we are lovers.
The southern cross
wants our suffering.
And the southern fire
our desire,
to round the circle and
enclose us, sacredly,
in this intensity of creation.
Siyo, we Cherokee say:
Greeting to sun and wind,
blood and fire,
and this offering of
smoke and prayers,
where the body, breathing,
joins
the dance-flame of the soul.
Ho, Burning Man says,
his face spirit-ward,
his eyes closed:
This is freedom
and it is good.
NOCTURNE
~~~~~~~~
How tenderly the starlight and the night.
The sounds of violins
are long haired in the trees.
The hour is quiet
with the wealth of linden;
the white damsels
of enchanted birch,
and the virgin ghosts
of weeping willows.
How I am longing
for seasons of the sea:
the tidal pulse,
in nocturnal waves, the
scent of a liquid infinity.
The next time
the moon is full,
I will feel your name
painted out of moonlight.
Now violins are playing.
Winds whispers over
like the shy caress
of a gentle goddess.
Still, I am forlorn
in the shadow of a
long night, holding a dream.
Corey King
Hello, my name is Corey King. I am an 18-year-old poet who has been writing
poems and songs for many years. In this email, I would like to send a few
poems to you for consideration in your magazine. The following are some poems
of mine that I have selected.
Like An Ocean of Red...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Secret Prisoner
War smoke wake steel morning
Like ocean of red
Pierce stream, only here will you remember
Rot surrounds
Dying heart
Bone fresh above the breeze
Men haunted by lingering bellow of broken
decay
May this wet grass kiss my life away
Flora
~~~~~
How beautiful is
The everlasting earth
Though dark and dirty
To many flowers and trees it gave birth
I gaze admiringly upon the lily
How pretty and how fair!
She doth dine on sugar
And breath the purest air
I sit in great comfort
Under the boughs of the oak tree
How calm and cool is the shade
That falls down upon me!
I roll around
In the green and fertile field
I sustain my thirst on the morning dew
That doth rest on the grass and the
farmer's yield
The flora died
When old man winter came
I really shouldn't be so blue
Because my dear flora will return again
The Genesis Reveals
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell me, in detail
Of our long, long
Past, which i hear is full of
Hate and war and lacking love
Does
Every
Shot
In
G-Force
Noise
Stop Moving?
Ion Hand
~~~~~~~~
I saw you walking out of the nuclear plant
Glowing like a plutonium rod
I saw you hold a light bulb
And make it flash into life
I saw you walking like nuclear fission
And the very air was charged
I saw you reaching out
In order to shake my hand
You've got a nuclear handshake
You've got an ion hand
Just let me take my Potassium Iodide
So that the radiation doesn't hit me
I saw you walking into the nuclear plant
Radiating like uranium in its half-life
I saw you hold back the doors
When the meltdown occurred
I saw the people cry "Hero!"
When they carried your body out
I saw the people wearing Hazmat suits
When they walked by your casket
You had a nuclear handshake
You had an ion hand
Now you have a nuclear grave
And the flowers glow like plutonium rods
Anthony Nannetti
ROLL OVER PATHAGORAS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Junior's unruly arithmetic leaves numbers
out of the equation --- integers not
integral --- and replaces with ambiguity and
imprecision theorems all.
Accountants balk, but the thing
has some appeal, with its whimsical
devaluations, abstractions by the score, and
Rorschach flash cards all the rage.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2006 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://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
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
