October 2004

VOL XII Issue 10, Number 138

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Heather Ferguson; Oswald LeWinter

ISSN 1480-6401

INTRODUCTION
 
   David Sparenberg
      THE PRAYER RUG CIRCULAR
 
CONTENTS

   Ward Kelley
      Quite Godlike Or Alien
      Tales From McCarron Airport
      The Beauty of the Trick
 
   Christina McNish
      1. Promenade with talismans
      2. Black horizon

   Donna Bamford
      Canto d'amore
      Canto di desiderio
      Canto di Firenze
      Of Kabul
      Of Rome

   Daniel Gallik
      How You Cry About Today's Love
      Just Reactions
      Mom Laughed At Everything
         That Happened To Me
      mother/wife warned me not to travel at night

   John Allen
      Solitude 
      "Rehabilitation" 
      "Good To Be Known" 

   John Birkbeck
      IT'S CULTURE 
      IT'S THE HOLY GRAIL 
      IT'S GOVERNANCE 

   Jesse Ferguson
      Mother's Memories
      Fly-Swarm in the Face
      Just Laura and Fleece
      The Creek Behind My House

POST SCRIPTUM

   Jesse Feruson
      Springtime in the Byward Market

David Sparenberg


THE PRAYER RUG CIRCULAR
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rose wine red
and a drunken dervish:
two rings

two rings
viewed from the outside

the ring
he makes around her
the ring
she makes around him

the circle
in perpectual motion
the prayer rug curves

hushed
to silence
a passion rises
the voices whisper
dreams would sing

two rings

viewed from within

the circle
she makes wihtin him
the circle
he makes within her

the double helix
of origin forms

that which grows
through being consumed
a hunger starves
the more we are fed

two rings

one...

one is marked his
(but which one)
and one
one is marked hers

in vision only
the image tells

midnight-
gold
to liquid fire

the prayer rug circular

the round
eclipse
and revelation

she tells him "o"
and he to her

Red wind, rose
and a drunken dervish

3-4 September 2004

Ward Kelley


Quite Godlike Or Alien
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the lowest step of society
to the highest rung, there is but
a slight difference in intelligence,

if you are a god viewing this, or
an occupant of a different galaxy;
but the breadth of intellect remains

so slim, amongst us poor humans,
that for some of us to put on airs
is really quite absurd, to gods, that

is, or aliens. I've often observed how
the very smartest of us have no, or
few, intellectual airs, and are just as 

interested, and listen as closely, to
janitors as to scientists, and in this
they are quite godlike or alien.



Tales From McCarron Airport
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A.

She waved a half-picked bunch of purple
grapes toward your plate, "Want these?"

You shook your head, an immaculate
denial of what she offered. From her
end, she decided it was only grapes.

B.

The stunning girl in rabbit fur sat down 
by you in the black naugahyde seats 
at the gate for the Chicago flight.

Reading your newspaper, you still
noticed her face when she started
to weep. Dry desert sun streamed
from windows which reminded you
of a far different airport. Nothing
is as it seems here.

The girl, silent at first, now began
to bawl, loud sobs, bouncing her
breasts. You wished there were
more people at the gate, then
positioned the paper between
your face and the girl's tears.

Shortly she moved to the next gate,
and tried again.

C.

The waitress told you she had seen
you in here a couple of months ago,
then asked if you came to Vegas
for pleasure or business.

"Business in Arizona," you quickly
distanced yourself from the casinos.            

D.

You fly off, your fingers 
constructing a tent or steeple 
as you sit still in your seat
and consider how you retreat 
from most interactions . . .

your wife would approve, although
you understand you retreat at both
ends of the trip.



The Beauty of the Trick
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The universe, incarnate, slouches over the guardrail,
having taken the form of a skinny teenage poet who
has dyed her hair blonde, but who now peers into
the Grand Canyon.

No one knows, she thinks, the beauty
of the trick.

She admires her wondrous chasm, then watches
a hawk pined silent on a thermal.

The stork who delivers the baby earlier acted
as the knife to silent a crone's heart, a slight
of hand, sliding death to life to death to life;
open, closed, open.

Nothing is permanent, the skinny girl knows,
nothing made of atoms is permanent, while
souls can neither be created nor destroyed.

She winks at the hawk who breaks free
as a bullet, targeting a snake far below.



Christina McNish


1. Promenade with talismans

Nora doesn't have a walking partner anymore.
The only thing that could make up for the
loss is the kitten her daughter picked up
at a farmer's market; it reminds her of
our orange-and-white tabby. She loved Happy.
When my sister and I came to visit her,
we saw her house as the perfect home
for a pink-nosed creature: a cave of polar
bear fur with embosoming walls to keep one
safe and warm in lonely Ontarian winters.

I remember Nora tucking her fingers into the
kitten's coat, as vulnerable as the newborn
animal. I remember thinking of aging as a
discoloured shadow which leaves marks on
the skin, that it will eventually override
her wrinkles.

Lastly, she told us our cat used to nestle
her in a skinny-elbow hug before she'd curl
into sleep. When we left her cave, we trekked
back reverentially, following Happy's
invisible paw prints.

A few years ago, Nora had no trouble finding
a critter to cuddle or a partner to appreciate
the wild's tenderness. She and her husband,
George, would promenade out together with
pink cheeks, chancing flu and brittleness.

But this time after spring, death is an
impostor, having crept into her bed through
cracked windows. Now she blow-dries
plexiglass shut and takes walks alone by
briars to retrieve George and our tabby with
her nearsighted eyes. The large pines she spots
are arrows, pointing the blurry path she'll
travel to steal them back.



2. Black horizon

Black flecks have come to make my acquaintance
from the mouths of truant toilets or like Canadian
geese, descending from some great congo line in
the sky.

I can imagine you, a self-appointed detective,
enlisting tornado-shaped inquiries to entrap
those mysterious descendants from their whirling
houses on above. We tend to depend on high
sources to secure our gods and vermin in lassos.

Though perhaps this time it doesn't suit us to
take out our spurs and cowboy hats, to ring the
wicked witch's door bell. I have a feeling the big
black fleck rubbing and purring up against your leg
will have greater reason for watching specks kick
their heels on the horizon.



Donna Bamford


Canto d'amore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you ask me to sing a song of love,
I will sing of despair,
I will sing of the wind trying to catch the ripples
I will sing of the flowers trying to touch the sun
of crushed petals in the breeze
of thistledown in the stream
of violet starlight
and weeping flames
of lives lost and unrepentant
of beauty and damnation
of wormwood and bitterest gall



Canto di desiderio
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you ask me to  sing  of desire
I will sing you a song of joy,
of the stolen kiss,
of two hands entwined tenderly.
of his jaguar eyes
burning you with their caress,
of inebriated desire,
hot like rum,
like cognac
like French wine and hashish
and I am glad that I picked the blossoms
in the garden
I am glad that I knew such sweetness
like red cherries from the tree.



Canto di Firenze
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you ask me what I remember about Florence,
I will say that I remember
a small pensione
on a hill
surrounded by wild blue iris
and that inside the pensione
the walls were covered with
original art
and that you could not stay there
unless  you were a couple
but I was with a young English boy
so we passed muster.
I remember that we spent
the first day visiting the art galleries
which was much to my liking
and that he sat and sketched  a drawing
of the Uffizzi while I wrote a poem.
I remember too that he had friends
who had a long baby like Botticelli baby
and that we went to the market
and I bought a silk Indian scarf
like the men wore in Ibiza
in fuchsia and sapphire a turquoise
and I remember that the sound
of the language pleased me like no other
and that I loved to pronounce the words
and that the music of  the language gave me
a pleasure like no other
so that if you ask
what I remember about Florence
I will say that it was pleasing to all my senses
and that it gave me unsurpassed joy.



Of Kabul
~~~~~~~~

Of Kabul I recall,
        men on camels,
proud, dignified
          an open air market,
bags of spices,
              saffron, orange, russet
        a hotel for hippies,
            hippies everywhere,
                      embassy row, pretentious,
a Rhodesian hippy, talkative,
                   Afghan coats, exquisite,
the exotic sky,
           lapis and clear,
early November,
            no storm clouds on the horizon



Of Rome
~~~~~~~

Of Rome I remember
St. Peter's Square
the Pope preaching on Easter Sunday morning
clouds of white doves,
the coliseum, a turquoise-eyed Jordanian
dreams in his eyes
dinner in a vine-covered caf=E9
the Piazza Novona
pigeons blossoming
shades of Felini, sympatico,
the Spanish steps,
so many rendezvous,
Trastevere, my favourite quarter
the melon and sepia walls
the Trevi fountain, overwhelming
the wine and the laughter,
A Roma - baroque and sublime



Daniel Gallik
 

How You Cry About Today's Love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We expect her to ascend
to the second floor.  She
does not.  Skips it.  Climbs
to the third.  Says she
was moved to the pavilion.

His house.  He looks like
a Sam, yet has aristocracy
within his demons.  The man
is an independent figure in
the narrative.  He cries

at her move.  She moves
like guitar strings as he
watches the hum.  Listen,
the narrative within this
love is the same as ours.

But the moves are wrong
and different and not about
love or fate or sweetness.
Today, they are about Sams
and Glorias in excellsius.



Just Reactions
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A new pope was coming
as the artist waited
for the death of the old pope.

No one was knowing of
the scabrous nudity
that the artist had in mind.

Anymore, the light of
truth was not known
by either the papacy or all

artists of the world.  
Attacking the oils with
force had stopped being the

work of the our human 
condition.  A candle
was lit within the Catholic

Church.  Still, not a
single moment of abandon
was noted in the current vias

of a humankind who looked
little into the extracts
of the long visions of Jesus.



Mom Laughed At Everything
That Happened To Me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Strange weapon, a bag
of salt the short lady
threw at me as I ducked
and went sliding under

her couch.  Six, I did
a sweep and came out
the other side and ran
out the door, to a Shell

Station down the street.
Called my mother, she
laughed, told attendant
and he laughed, then told

my buddy, he grinned.  I
said to myself this is
an epiphany, but said not
a thing to anyone else.

Later, at home, Evil
Brother kicked the shit
out of me in the tub.
Smelly water wasn't fun.



mother/wife warned me not to travel at night
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ever mine     love ever            lovelove
for each other      oh, but the despair
never mind   my fatness    my smell    and
my ugliness some nights when I wish   wish
the lights to be turned off I want to feel
forever       this deep sorrow continues
the times I feel I am a waste    a spoiler
you smile      I cry for you         you
wholly mine        wholly God's   in a love
that lasts    will last       ever and e
ver   you my dearest creature     me, old
falling away into another realm     lively
you    full of energy    and your smiles
my heart       there    always there   even
when I die      feel me   in your heart my
heart   and time will travel with my touches
upon your lasting     tears     my tears and
yours    one    in time oh time longest time



John Allen


Solitude 
~~~~~~~~

dolls and pictures
swear quietly at my distant memory.
clock strikes coupled with the ambiguity of an empty room,
absence writes a draft for me, 
a note of withered leaves,
a kiss of arsenic lipstick.
like everyone else alone,
i chase the grasping truant.
probably playing hooky in some idea, 
or perhaps a misbegotten word,
spoken in invariably false pride.
where could he be?
that dilated schoolboy
instituted into shallow verbs 
lost in the loneliness of the summer air.



"Rehabilitation" 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

if you're quiet, you can see the chatter of 
chipped green wall paint
you can hear the dumb replies of cheap 
mattresses to tears
borne from broken corneas swimming in acidic 
canals.
weathered folds in skin like snapped tan 
leather speak numbingly in sombre tones
and suede inflections through shaking 
pockets of air
the deaf ring of faint hearts rebelling 
against worn rib cages echoing in restless 
dreams
of failed contrition and homeless yearnings 
for a clear headed love.
mute protests from sweating pores slick 
treatises written in oozing drops to the day



"Good To Be Known" 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your words shred the nighttime like 
clipping shafts of light
or airborne sun scissors.
I grasped faintly at the locks trembling
and hued with dark for the pieces
of my spliced shadow. 
And with a desperate dive worthy
of a bow legged swimmer, 
found the absence of what was. 



John Birkbeck


IT'S CULTURE 
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Colonizing 
the looping 
asphalt trails 
roads ridges 
knolls named 
after English 
Home Counties 
mobius strips 
meandering 
toward The Beast 
at sundown 
the doing of 
slow dope 
to feel normal 
and then 
gearing up 
to beast level 
in the mornings 
to become a 
vampyre of daylight 
and office hours-- 
is it possible 
to be an historian 
and not be 
an anarchist or 
even to be ? 



IT'S THE HOLY GRAIL 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

... or maybe the esotericism 
of whatever passes for 
academic discourse 
in these later days of 
no Latin no Greek   
no rollick in the original tongues 
of bards who in facing Moors 
had strummed of delayed lust 
for ladies a-waiting 
in their foggy homelands 
pining away from unassailable 
baconies far up on 
cold stone battlements 
yet holding the dream 
aloft 



IT'S GOVERNANCE 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The talk shows 
and smart-assed 
shock jockeys 
and superstars 
from think tanks 
who give style 
and one-liners 
and put-downs 
glibbing into all 
the metro areas 
from the safety 
of padded studios   
concertina wire 
embracing security 
like a belt tightened 
by methane gas 
swelling in the guts 
and mobs of citizens 
outside the gated 
communities swelling 
even more screaming 
at politicians to 
Do the right thing 
motherfuckers 
tone deaf 
too late 



Jesse Ferguson

 
Mother's Memories
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

When you doled
out generous slices
of painful remembrances
I couldn't taste their sweetness-
it sucked the dew
from out my throat
like I'd swallowed
the tea towel,
or the promises 
of goblin men.
 
We hugged each other
to other
without lifting
from chairs,
and I was blinded by
the bright effulgence 
of merry May 
sunshine on our solemn
pastel plastic tablecloth
communion.

Your pain fell
like heavy, full-bosomed fruit
racing rain
earthward,
and the rotting flesh
of rank wounds,
the scars and bruises
pressed and nicked
into the tender skin 
of your youth
nurtured my hate,
as your love nurtured my love.
I carried both
in an antique basket
home from orchard.  

May 3rd  2004. 



Fly-Swarm in the Face
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Midge words rim
     my mind,
coffee-ring
the ceramic mug
     of thought,
and the cycles of Nature
pull the tagalong cycles
of humanity
                behind them:
            coattail riding,
politic Yes-Men.
Mythology gnats about her face
crawling in at ears,
bursting drums with 
sharp mortal whines,
     and balling up 
in the wet, pink corners
of her cosmic eye.
Man-woman schemas
swarm the face 
                     of beauty,
like flies by a pond
havocked by breath,
and so small as to be
unworthy the spitting out.
If you take but one thing 
     from this
            let it be
the humility of swarm flies 
between the teeth.

May 2, 2004.



Just Laura and Fleece
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Never lying
here with you,
like loving pupa
gestating 
under stairs,
silk dreaming
all winter,
hoping for sun
patiently waiting
for a world 
ready for us.
Just Laura and fleece
and the uncanny power
of frail arms
to humanize
a human.

April 26, 2004



The Creek Behind My House
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Black rubber boots
            overflowing creek water,
deep down in primeval muck
            wet sponge mud funk,
air loaded with Spring
            like a coat-hanger net
dripping invertebrates.

Shrill whistle of Red-Wings
            in cattails,
and the long pined for
            sting
of first Mosquito.

The clay holds on
            to boots,
and as you squirm free
smacks its chops, 
like pop of cork 
from a bottle,
or a smiling boy, smelling of scum,
            hungry for hot-dogs,
picking souvenir leeches 
from his winter-white leg.

April 25, 2004.




Jesse Ferguson

Springtime in the Byward Market
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Sap thaws and flows in the loneliest tree
heroine surging junky veins
behind the restaurant, in the mongrel alley

Spring flutters in the branches, a tattered grocery bag
like wings of a bird that ate plastic and died
crinkling in the breeze, fresh season’s flag

Along the curb and sidewalk and street,
pop cans, condoms, wrappers and butts,
buds blooming from snow banks, tender, sweet

Homeless wretches, honking homeward bound geese
soar high over market, in mouthwash ecstasy
then rot in the litter, with last year's leaves

April 1, 2004.





 

A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers

An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]

(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda



       Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established 
       just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A 
       place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and 
       learn from all.  A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. 
       Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

       The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. 
       Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such 
       an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon 
       started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin 
       Board Systems.

       We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
       specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
       Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
       are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
       writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
       can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since 
       the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means 
       that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative 
       user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.

       Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede







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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
  . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

  . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp

  . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
  . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
  . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

  . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
  . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
  . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
  . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

  . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

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