May 2011
VOL XIX, Issue 5, Number 217
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
Dave Shortt
The Sleep Whoever Sleeps Toys With Distant Interests
Contents
Ricky Garni
DAYDREAM BELIEVER
CANDLES
THE FOUR SEASONS
PIZZA
NOTHING IS WRONG
Lori A. May
"Last Kiss"
"A Hot Debate"
"Port aux Basques"
Daniel Gallik
Same Old Song
Promote The General Welfare
Outlets
No Waste Of Time
John Grey
EXPRESSIONLESS
RONNIE BACK FROM IRAQ
RESTLESS NIGHTS AHEAD
Francesca Castaño
Poem
Shaking Loose the Blues
Smoke
Post Scriptum
Dave Shortt
Pancreas
Dave Shortt
The Sleep Whoever Sleeps Toys With Distant Interests
remember memoriless,
without special relative,
what is homogeneous, old trees
corroborate
dream of running around their circumferences
to stay warm
(very clean houses
without owls,
food everywhere exposed in the rooms
a caged bird saying
'we love hollywood,
in the flesh
wouldn't be the same'
a native land where
laws were born
jaws were born to nod
off under
slack vertebrae, spine sure
til hurricanes blow
roofs off but
'we left there long ago'
returning to debt
every move a debt, or
credit?
smell the air
along the way, the children
endow each flower with
prevention or
breakthrough
into puberty's silences
travelling west, some hours
were gained, the sun
collaborating with jets sowing
the sky with deals
to create this frontier of
varying mass, where
the sunset's colors tell
who's younger, who's older, whether
a kid'll happen along
resetting the clocks before deciding:
should it compel deer or
leave them alone?
every word a mannerism
nowhere near a bath in the river,
animals consumed by appearance
let furs stiffen,
surface runoff from flash storms
flows into the first layer
of a new mountain range
(something barely human can still be suggested
beyond the formalism of violence & war)
things slow down into
permanent alliances with 'non-renewable'
resources & bodies,
tons of motor vehicles get flagged through,
excavated pipes deviating ornery weather
are just spit
shining the antiques
the moon was made an icon
of religious wars,
but in company of
a simple supper
no spacecraft or alphabetical order
or abortion
would use it for an additive,
an extra,
so it's nothing unless
it's a stone roughening the function
of a kidney
the million-&-nth zen patriarch
slipped into her womb
'a force field in want of nothing,'
down the white tunnel
knew he'd be evicted or
he wouldn't've,
clot hiding immortal wave functions
galvanizes her mama dharma, can it
swing in the trees?
(it didn't seem planned that way
it was just how they met)
radios break morning
with descriptions of violent & soothing dreams,
fade to
sound of crickets continuing all day,
in alarm
Ricky Garni
DAYDREAM BELIEVER
The tree I see is a birch tree projected onto a pink wall
and it is waving in the wind. I know that if I try to climb
it I will fall down once I am half way up because you can't
climb on a tree that is projected onto a wall, you will fall down,
once you tell yourself I can't climb on a tree that is projected
onto a wall, about half way up the tree, and therefore you can't
even say it's a birch tree, but you can say that it is windy--the birch
trees say that all the time, and you can say you
fell down, if you don't believe in trees when you fall down
like so, like the birch tree that I fell down from I think it
was your fault really, if you can hear me, you are definitely
guilty and you are definitely a birch tree.
CANDLES
People put candles on tables and light them and then eat dinner.
They used to place to very large candles on the table. There was one on each end.
Now they put 20 candles on the table. Or more. They don't pay attention and sometimes
the tablecloth and linen catches on fire and blazes throughout the room and eventually
burns down everything including the old photographs and love letters that contained
things like
I Love You
yes they did they burned until there was absolutely nothing left to burn except air.
Everyone thinks it was better when people put two candles on tables and lit them and
then had dinner. And there were more things.
And it was also darker. Everybody that is still alive, yes. They say yes, more things,
and it was better and darker.
THE FOUR SEASONS
So close to winter and so deep into autumn, I think of the word "Renée":
a difficult word to spell at first, and a difficult word to pronounce if
you have only read it. No -Michael Lookofsky- of difficulty to pronounce,
but difficult to pronounce, nevertheless.
This deep in autumn I want winter to go away. Already. That's why I say Renée.
Just walk away, Renée, I say. A aching melody in the pop rock milieu.
Michael Lookofsky: please tell me to walk away, said Renée.
Michael Lookofsky said Walk Away, Renée. Michael Lookofsky wrote Walk Away, Renée.
His hands shook so badly in the studio that he could barely play Walk Away, Renée .
There she was, Renée, looking at him and smiling. The studio was dark and she was
smiling and tall and blonde. And blonde and smiling and tall.
Michael Lookofsky really didn’t want Renée to walk away. I know you love someone
else, Michael thought, but what could he say? Please stay, Renée. Please stay.
Must you go? Don't walk away.
And then he changed his mind.
How I wish winter, not Renée, would walk away!
PIZZA
What do I think of when I think of pizza? I think that it is fulfilling and wonderful
if you don't eat it too much. If you wait for months, or even years, you eat pizza and
it's like hearing the wind and seeing nothing. You look towards the left: there is
nothing; you look towards the right; there is nothing. And then you look towards the
horizon WAIT you see a saint coming towards you, ever so slowly, bathed in a pearly light.
The closer he comes the more you feel his warmth and goodness; it coats you in its
celestial beauty, Soon, but not as soon as you might think, he is close enough
to touch, and it is then that he extends his hand towards you. No, it does not have
a pizza in it; he is the pizza. He smiles, hot peppers and pepperoni, anchovies and
salami, crinkly onions turn upwards. At which point you have to decide: do I eat?
If I do, what will it cost me, in the long run? Yes, you say, I do think I will eat this pizza.
It will be satisfying and delicious. And I will have done the right thing, and so
will have he. After all, every man is just a man, outside, waiting to do something new,
and every saint is really just a man inside, waiting to do something new, each holding out
his hand towards the other, each glowing in celestial light, wondering
what to do when they are close enough to touch it has been so long.
NOTHING IS WRONG
History is so much more beautiful when you are a baby.
Ben Franklin:
flew a kite: that's all you need to know.
Now you like Ben Franklin.
Jesus said:
Do you know how tiny a mustard seed is?
It's tinier than your pinky.
Jesus was funny.
Napoleon said:
My muscles are big.
Were they?
That's enough for today.
Tomorrow let's go outside and see the sun.
It is bright and shiny like a ball of something.
It goes everywhere and it doesn't rain.
If it did something would be wrong.
Lori A. May
"Last Kiss"
She doesn't have the strength to love him.
Even now, before their breaths intermingle
in a second date kiss,
she feels herself slipping away.
It is enough of a challenge to trust in the self,
never mind another.
Moist breath lingers against
the humidity of summer's night;
intoxicating heat stirs
a place between sleep and dream,
wake and reality.
He gives her life,
exhaling his into hers,
hoping this moment will resuscitate a memory
too pure to let slip from her lips.
Stars glimmer down in spotlight
cueing opportunity on this stage.
His thumb whispers against her ear,
calling out her name into the darkness.
She has heard it before.
The chitter chatter of night creatures
in the playground of June
ground her, comfort her against their betrayal.
This is the place where decisions are made,
where the tick of time takes a toll
measuring consequence in a proactive stance.
Sly solstice rolls through like liquid,
delicate and deceptive,
widening space and time,
closing the distance between lovers.
The hush against breath,
the drumming beat keeping time,
she weighs possibilities
in the split of a second,
on this second date kiss.
Heat shivers through her skin
blending sweet summer sweat with saltiness.
He wants to tell her it's just a kiss.
Cross-town church bells ring in twelves,
echoing heartbeats abruptly closing the minute.
His lips find a home against hers
as she accepts their parting ways,
the moment sliding down beside her
as her mind is infinitely set.
He takes life from her,
stealing her breath into his,
knowing he is now a step behind darkness
as he feels her slipping away
on this sultry summer eve.
Years of contradiction formulate her argument.
She wants to love him, but she hasn't the strength.
"A Hot Debate"
When she preaches, she is
never at a loss for words, knowing
which passages to quote
to validate her theories. She praises
Paul and John and sometimes Jesus,
but mostly she just assigns her belief
to the pages, clinging to her
relationship with Him, keeping the faith
that some day she will be at peace.
But today, like any other, the verses
don't do me any good. I try to tell her
the rent is due or the car broke down
and she nods, as usual, with a glimmer
of hope in her eye, as though she is saying
that's the way it's supposed to be.
I ask her if she loves me
and she says she loves all God's
children, as does He, and I
wish it were the seventies
again so I wouldn't feel so bad
about wanting to light a match.
Then I think of Gutenberg and Salinger
and Steinbeck, too, and regret my silent
wish to silence her pages. The pages
aren't hers though, and the fire pit
wouldn't solve anything as Jacob and Wilhelm
could share a grim tale. After the fire,
the memory sticks and words
that come to life are never really bound
between the covers. I know better.
But today, like any other, her words
are ironic. She knows them and quotes them,
but they aren't even hers. I want to tell
Milton this is not her Reason, but
regurgitated thoughts she remembers
because she believes her intellect is not free.
"Port aux Basques"
The ferryboat is coming;
she comes from away.
From away she comes,
settles into Port aux Basques,
sets free the seamen and wayward,
the travelers;
brings home the Doyles and MacDougalls
brings home the boys and bouys.
A new found land,
a 'scape like no other,
an escape to understand.
The ferryboat comes and goes,
but the folk always come home.
Into Port aux Basques
she settles,
brings home the Doyles and MacDougalls
brings home the boys and bouys.
Daniel Gallik
Same Old Song
My sweet
new, new love,
Nancy & I
attended our kid's
ensemble & choir
concert this evening.
I got to meet
my ex-wive's
new boyfriend.
My ex-father-in-law
has always been
sweet to me.
I won't comment
on my ex's mother.
The concert was
dedicated to a kid
who is battling
cancer. Ex's mother
gave a check.
I didn't.
Promote The General Welfare
Irv got a call. This lady
from this church
was telling him no,
that they didn't have money
for obese people
to get help. That quote,
"These are tough times
to find money for them."
Unquote. Irv laughed
at the lady over the phone.
Asked, "Guess the fatsoes
need less help cause they're fat?
That maybe they'll get thin
if they have no money?"
The lady quipped, "Well!"
And they both left it
at that.
Outlets
She yelled at the kids.
They weren't even hers.
Told Ohio Edison
they were wrong
on their meter reading.
Said her divorced hubby
had ringworm once.
Questioned her current
hubby, you don't know
how to hug me, do you?
Cried a lot about famine.
Ate way too much
after supper. Said, I drink
a beer a day. When really,
she drank much more.
Her doctor told her
what to do. She told
her pastor that she was
going to hell. He winced,
said, I don't know.
No Waste Of Time
"This seems to be a sunny,
quiet area of the house.
But why are the lights on?"
She did not bat an eye, said,
"This is where I sleep
during the day." He asked,
"Which means you need
your rest?" She smiled.
"I am wondering if I am
made for you," he laughed.
She said she was happy
right now, but maybe
she needed to laugh more.
He took her number, said,
"It was nice meeting you,
you just so relaxed."
John Grey
EXPRESSIONLESS
So it is my job -
to find the expression in expressionless,
to scan the face reading the magazine
to see if anything in words on paper
can get through
as a twitch of the nose,
a widening of an eye.
Later,
when she moves,
I will closely examine the dent left
in the sofa cushion,
like a forensic scientist.
Does a deep dimple imply
happiness or sadness?
The books on the subject are unclear.
And so to the kettle
though I sometimes read too much into
its shrill whistle,
ferocious head of steam.
But her fingers on the handle,
that's a clue.
Does she flinch at the heat
or welcome it into her flesh?
Now, it's time for her to sip
and her mouth, surely,
cannot be solely apathetic
when pressed to swallow.
Are those welcoming lips?
Is that a tongue that condemns
all coffee to its stomach grave?
"Would you like a cup?" she asks me.
So she expects me to endorse her indifference.
Then is my "no"
my way of saying "yes" to her.
RONNIE BACK FROM IRAQ
He's not back
until he's stripped naked
and diving head first
into the lake.
He's not home
until he's swum across
to the other side.
The hugs, the kisses,
at the airport are mere prelude.
Even the sight of his bed,
his pennants, his posters,
is one more stepping stone
to his true return.
At rest on the opposite bank,
he looks back across
the rippling surface.
"Come on in America," he says,
"The water's fine."
Sure, a kid drowned here once
but no country ever did.
RESTLESS NIGHTS AHEAD
sleep
my head won't be joining you
it's hanging cock-eyed
from a bough
today we learned
lynching in the deep south
no
not how to lynch
but what an evil flicked-up place
this country was back in
the nineteen twenties
if you were black and
from Mississippi
and looked twice
at a white girl
I can't help
but imagine what
it must be like to be
dead and swinging by the neck
while an angry mob below
cheered you to your grave
so how can I sleep
and then I can't avoid
being in the heads of
that blood-thirsty crowd
celebrating like crazy
when the life bucks clear out
of another human being
so how can I sleep
I wish I'd never heard of
lynching in the deep south
either that
or I wish I never had to sleep
TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD
The dead, days pass, then years,
even more dead, approaching nadir
with the lengthening times
between visits to the grave.
It's all this living's fault.
The dogwood is in bloom.
Wildflowers are so gaudy in the fields.
Must pick one in hopes
the ones who see me blossom pluck me.
I'm tired of death, that's my problem.
I've no longer the will
to hunker down at the gravesite,
announce my memories intact
with a wet eye and a handful of flowers.
Living people come to my door
and even the strangers among them
are more welcoming
than bodies buried six feet below.
I'd rather tell a kid why I don’t
want to buy a magazine subscription
then talk forever in the past tense.
Even the dead, I'm sure,
would agree that they don't belong.
If they had hands and matches,
they'd burn the photographs,
incinerate the letters.
If they'd the will, the reasoning,
they'd get inside my head
and empty out all traces of themselves.
Those wildflowers,
they're everywhere.
Why should I bring them to the ones
who have no use for them.
It's a short life and existence counts for everything.
So forgive me if I touch myself
just to prove that I can do it.
Or I get out in a crowd
because there's breathing going on.
Francesca Castaño
Poem
We believe
in the religion
of love
when love
has no religion.
History
goes on
determinedly disobedient
of countless anxieties.
Such a river of lives
under the water of what remains
invisible.
But we search for
Radiance too
trying to locate the love
where in.
Shaking Loose the Blues
To Karen
I often envision you as a
tree, dense and substantial.
Hands spreading like roots,
swimming against tides.
Sustaining castles with clenched
fists that build words.
Removing thorns with patient
fingertips that collect dreams.
Holding out against the obvious,
climbing up a hill and down again.
Writing with persistent wit
onto a lined manuscript.
Jumping over metric certainties,
beholding the breath of affliction.
Filling the cup as it spills down;
steadily shaking loose the blues.
Smoke
One thinks about little other than his own complaints,
seldom determined by rational understanding.
One rambles among abstract fires now
illuminating, now growing somehow mechanical.
One survives labouring among the crowds,
absent-minded and dreamy.
One imagines a little chrysanthemum
and sees death ahead, persistent.
One hopes for the miracle of the day,
stripping the skin of innocence, vulnerable.
One shifts the focus from the implacable
to the useless, constantly swallowing.
One ponders, rushing to get somewhere
within the emptiness of telephone wires, burning
condensating, evaporating
into smoke, consumed by patience.
One lives like a solar arrow,
flying past windows like music.
Dave Shortt
Pancreas
the stars burn as sugar,
winter is stuck facing the stomach
& bloodstream,
the dinosaur moon
grazes the sky in
one uniform chew,
time is all that heats its path
across eyes ancient in carbohydrates
*
endocrine sunrises stored in animal tissues
illumine inorganic opacity
of night
with energy, til tomorrow
catalyzes new between-meal insight
*
gutache in which cloudcover
depresses earth's potential to ingest
stamina, pass it on in uninterrupted momentum
to a bear or tree
*
icebergs of fats are mooring
hands tremoring like sails
voyaging on from
peachskin waters barely broken
by the body swimming
in its secretions
*
sluggish ego
enters vascular systems of society
from its gastric past
& chyme of forming galaxies
*
sweet surges desire,
'meteor non-assimilation'
(guesses the soul),
brotherly in its metabolic reserves,
scientifically open
to the Craw
*
a celestial event is craving consciousness
before swinging away from
trace metal moods,
its glucose geodetic
weighs on planetary inducements
(molten bands & hyped colors)
to alcoholism & sleep
*
oozing soil where
a cane cutter's machete works the rows,
up & down monotonously, autonomously
hearts accept insulin,
an arcanum
in the circulation of clotted wealth
*
starched heightened feelings
crash with a profit of fatigue,
love may yet over-
achieve a fasting spirit
*
charging movement
along an electrolyte route,
in the heat of work
the gland of molar smiles
is a dehydrating battery
*
imagine desserts every night
in different locations,
of fructose or café au lait
a waterlogged & gullied
isthmus between candylands &
prickly pear deserts
in a hyperactive act,
reaching down through the solar plexus
(the sun slipping on that pulley)
& with both hands tightening the Islets of Langerhans
like bolts
All selections are 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 - 2011 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
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