THIS IS A POEM...

by

Klaus J. Gerken

(1974)


This is a poem
that stems from a long
time ago. From
a shut out past
that displaces
truth today. One
is always bombarded
with
ways
to shut out the
material plane - to say
life is misery and strife -
but is this
ever the way?
One is born into
a mortal world
and from the first 
moment
gains "experience"
and these "experiences"
are "sensual"
for the most part -
so why
get rid of them?
Why not utilize them
for a further end?

The bite of winter
claws the skin -
settles vehement boredom
on our fate.
                 Condemned
and tortured
we stare into infinity -
being apart from it,
and we long after
an indefinable something -
statements found,
and statements lost,
fugitively cast into the
atom void
that are the building blocks
of everything
that is sangsara,
of everything that
in turn is also
an illusion.
                 The process...
it begins. Today
the sun is hot,
sky blue, clear,
yet the wild wind,
confuses us, we freeze
in the heat of Sol.
                           Through
tunnels that form
the process of
a memory we create
a past. And through
the past
create a memory.
There is no refusal
to submit to 
anything. Being bound
to nothing save the self -
imbiued by the self
we sing.
             And of what
we sing, is here.
As tangible as the chair
in front of me, the mirror
and its image -
                      The year,
cd be any year
depending on the calendar
you use -
               Let's take '70,
71, 2
or any year
which produces saltimbanques -
asleep at the edge
of a canvas -
                    asleep at
the edge of
nowhere.
              The museum
comes to mind. "Don't touch
the sculpture" sd the
lady there. "That's what
gets me 
so upset" sd John,
touching it gain. "It's here
to touch. It's here
to present a sensuality -
It's got to be touched,
to be felt, to understand 
the structure
                   of its shape."
""Let's tell someone," I said,
"Tell who?"
"Let's tell whoever 
      runs this place -
Let's ask for a show."
"A show of what?"
"Whatever we have."
"But we have nothing."
"Right, that's what we'll show -
We'll use the room upstairs
with the lights - good 
echo there. Take your flute
and play a tune.
I'll bring my guitar
and sing along."

Well, not quite. Things
have a habit of
getting skewed,
confused and synthesized.
Nothing came of the event.
O they were nice
enough and all.
But a "happening"
was too radical for them.
Well... in any case
John copped out and
headed west while I
was left to figure out
what to do. Luckily
they called it off -
for "lack of time for
advertising" -
                    the same 
day I went down
the mall,
bummed some money
for some wine
and gulped it down.
(No respect for life.
Action of a dissident.)

Days grew long, hard
drunk and lazy. Girls
were found as fast
as cast away. Friends
were hardly
ever to be found.
The universal law
of people hooked on dope
was "paranoid" -
fear and hopelessness
in eyes cast struggling
gray black with the ground.
The "kicks" were to be
"Now" and never "Then".
The future just had 
no place in life -
and none of them
had a wish to live
too long...

But paralyzed by feat
we did go on.
"Be nice to stop the world"
but dreams cannot
be got.
A girl attempts to slit
her wrists - "Bad acid, man"
and pops some pills
"To forget the pain."
"And when do you
come down?"

--

A wino stumbles
down the street
telling us to not
drink wine - "plays
havoc with your live"
opening a bottle up,
a toothless laughter
struggles against
the odds -
who cares?
                 Days and
nights spent
at the Plaza were
the best. Sheltered
from the cold, we
settled in our chairs
and filled
the table up. The food
was good.
Smoke of cigarettes,
occasional whiffs of
hash.
The old cripple in the 
corner
by the mirror
nibbling on his draft -
the deaf mute
selling plastic pens. Gerry
and me, we have him
all our change
and had to bum  some more
to get back home.

Gerry was a good
friend. One of the 
first I met when I came to
Ottawa. Although
I don't remember where...
Perhaps somewhere
sharing a cigarette
or wine, perhaps
a joint of grass...
The parties one
remembers, vaguely,
soft, insane. Randy
getting lost
somewhere in the basement
of my home.
Debbie going after him
and coming up
for me
to help locate a voice.
I found him lying
behind the furnace
between cases of beer
screaming that
he's been locked up again
and that he
wants more booze...
The last I saw of him
was when, both 
in the Plaza he told
me that his mind's
been so fucked up
that he'd probably
even in a few days
or weeks would
never recognize me
again.
Debbie, whom I met
early in 1970
is still a good friend
though no longer
a lover
and whom I rarely
see or hear from.
Perhaps I should try and
contact her - she
hasn't got a new
telephone number, and
I never found the time
to call. She
told me once that Randy
was somewhere down
in the Caribbean,
"Puerto Rico" she sd.
"Must be nice..." remembering
the day he, Randy
was released from jail
after 6 months for
possession of hash and
indecent exposure. We
gave him a party
that is harder to recall
than ever to forget.
I and a friend
began the day, early
morning with
tequila - straight - and
Wendy (my girlfriend then)
came and bought another
bottle with the effects
of the first not
manifested yet.
Randy bragged he had
"fucked" four women
in succession before
the hour was up right
after his release. "Got to
make up for lost time."
he said. We got a cab
and squeezed 10 or more
people in. With the cabbie
kinda shook up and
much confusion we made it
to the nearest liquor store
across the street
and made it back
with a bottle more or so
than we purchased. So 
we had a grand ol' party
and too many there
to count joined in.
I remember all until
I passed out trying to
flag a cab
in ninety-nine degree
heat and
ended up in jail
reading the strange
inscription on the wall
and throwing up
all over the cell.
                       Wendy
took off with J.S.
She didn't want to be
attached to anyone.
Wanted a "sugar daddy"
she told me once
in her apartment
many stories up
overlooking the city
and a parking lot.
I wrote about that
later in a novel, but
that is fact, and
fiction does not enter it.
(Fiction's in the mind
and while the mind's a
fiction - where do we begin?)
                                          In
any event
that was the day she
locked me out and I
ended up freaking
in the elevator half
the night pushing
little buttons
trying to figure out
what the total sum
of what I pushed might me...
(Harrowing to say the least...)

Wendy was nice,
sweet, a bit evasive,
almost always rather
drunk. - I saw her
after a year or we broke up,
in Sherries on the Mall
(What memories
that place brings!) seated
with a man, I didn't recognize,
drinking beer. But I
didn't stop. And returned
too late when she had gone.
Just to see her
wd have been enough
for a man
in the ruins of a
memory.

But those times! what
times they were! What
marvelous care-free days!
What dreams we had!
But alas - even the old
buildings are no more.
And all in three short years!
It's unbelievable. J.S.
dead. Wendy in Vancouver,
or that's what I heard.
Richard married - how
old must his son be?
Two? Might be.
Once he had to
keep an appointment
at the medical centre
on Bank Street and we
killed a bottle of
dry white on the way -
Richard kept asking 
every girl he met if they
wanted to give him a bath
but they weren't 
inclined to take him up
on the offer -
in the building we
tore up the doctor's
office with our wild
antics and almost passed
out in the lobby but delayed
the action when the janitor
reminded us the place
was under observation.
Yes, what times they were.

But now the calm
serenity of every day tears
my mind asunder. -
The only people I can
think of that I'm
really still in contact with
are John and Frank, - but
John left for New Zealand
via Hawaii - (Wonder what
it's like down there?) -
And Frank? poor Frank - keeps
changing his name
trying to figure out
his own identity (aren't we
all?) He divides his time
between New Orleans and
Baton Rouge after finding
California "too political" - I guess
we all must live
our lives the best to our
abilities.
To soothe the restlessness
of mind. His letters
keep coming in... once 
a month, even less
with "sorry for neglect..." and
a new address.
But it's good o be
so busy - not to
have to think too much.

Saw Charlie just the other
day at the Shopping Mall,
more mature and straight
for once.  It's funny
when thinking back on it
now, how we once
got so wiped that we
tried to have sex under the table
in an outdoor restaurant
on Rideau Street, and the manager got so
nervous and upset he
threw us out and we
only found another 
place until the heat
cooled down and we went back
with a bottle of wine
which we drank out of
paper cups in full view
of everyone.
We always tried to see
who'd be the last
to pass out, but never really
stayed coherent long enough
for that.    
            We always tried
to pass out. That much 
I recall (to come
as close to touching death
as possible).
                   But to trace
the past seems somewhat
silly now. When all
is done - oh yes, but
some of us go on
trying hard to regain
the spontaneity
of those few years - but
try as may
we don't succeed a damn.
We remember things, and
ask about the others, what
became of them?
                          But
it's silly now -
another life
continues on.

2-3 Feb 1974