Software Vault: The Sapphire Collection/Software Vault (Sapphire Collection) (Digital Impact).ISO/cdr16/y_9410.zip/Y-9410.TXT

Text File | 1994-10-02 | 94KB | 2,458 lines

╔════════ October 1994 ═════════════════════════ Volume 2, Number 10 ════════╗
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║                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      ║
║                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           ║
║                                     : Pedro Sena                           ║
║                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        ║
║                      European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch           ║
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╚════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝



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      INTRODUCTION................................Klaus J. Gerken

      THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR......................Klaus J. Gerken
      expulsive defecance.........................Igal Koshevoy
      Today.......................................Jim Yagmin
      The Bird....................................Jim Yagmin
      One Way.....................................Jim Yagmin
      Where Has all the Passion gone?.............Jim Yagmin
      That Comes Under Moon.......................Jim Yagmin
      Burial Cycle................................Jim Yagmin
      Entropy.....................................Alvin Brinson
      Lost........................................Alvin Brinson
      What I know.................................William Gust
      Night Rider.................................Terry A. Long
      Love Knows No Color.........................Terry A. Long
      TIME........................................Terry A. Long
      Everyday Life...............................Terry A. Long
      A Lonely Road...............................Terry A. Long
      Out in the Park.............................Terry A. Long
      Love and Romance............................Terry A. Long
      The Poet Writes Their Poem..................Terry A. Long
      Changing Seasons of My Life.................Terry A. Long
      Flowers in the Rain.........................Terry A. Long
      Spring Poem XXVI............................Greg Schilling
      The Sundial.................................Marilyn Hutchings
      Sight.......................................Marilyn Hutchings
      The Room....................................Marilyn Hutchings
      Unfinished..................................Marilyn Hutchings
      Spider's Joke...............................Marilyn Hutchings
      LIFE'S LITTLE SYM-PHONY.....................Joe Hope
      HOME IS WHERE HELL IS.......................Joe Hope
      CLAY TOMB REVISITED AGAIN AND AGAIN.........Joe Hope
      Poem of Hope................................Graham Parker
      Target Practice.............................Gay Bost
      Pensive Antiquity...........................Jennifer Mulcahy
      A Poem......................................Jennifer Mulcahy
      Inside......................................Jennifer Mulcahy

      POST SCRIPTUM...............................Bob Ezergailis




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       I was standing on the balcony the other day watching the
   golden-cratered harvest moon rising low above a treed horizon, between
   two obstructive highrise towers, more bunker-like in their construction,
   than friendly.  10 stories below, across the evening-empty street, a tall
   lanky and young teenage youth, wearing faded jeans and a black leather
   jacket, stumbled, slightly drunk up a few concrete steps near an unused
   bicycle rack, to the front glass-door and fumble with the keys, until he
   realized, a bit perplexed at the complexity of the situation, that they
   front outer-door to the complex had no lock, and he required no key to
   enter.  He swung the door open rather abruptly and disappeared.  I turned
   my attention, once again, to the golden orb Diana, moving ever closer, in
   a timeless, almost imperceptible, ageless movement, towards the edge of
   the neighbouring balcony; proof that the living entity of Earth circles
   around the living entity of helium and light that we call Sol, and the
   ancients called Ra.

       This little episode, with the key and the unlocked door made me
   wonder about our own searches, not just for the meaning of life and
   death, but also of the meaning of the beginning and the end, the alpha
   and the omega, if you will: the search for true enlightenment.  In that
   respect, who knows how for we've come...John Lilly writes, in the his
   "Metaphysical Biography" The Scientist, that his "Beings", those who come
   and speak to him in his altered-states experiments, warn that the "solid
   life forms" (read computers) are taking the evolution of the earth.
   Although this is a sort of "doomsday" prognostications, his being have
   hope that in the end, we, the humans, will still triumph: but it all
   depends on how we program our computers: either to control us, or to
   serve.  As gratifying as it is to know this fact, it still raises a lot
   of questions.  For instance, if the "solid life forms" are indeed alive,
   and the humans eventually triumph over them, will the human forms be
   masters, and the "solid life forms" slaves?  Or will both life "entities"
   learn to co-exist and evolve together, in a mutual agreement?  What will
   be the morality of the situation?  Will the churches accept the "solid
   state" life forms, or will they refuse to acknowledge them?  Or will a
   brand new religion develop, one which takes into account all life within
   the universe, indeed, one which acknowledges the Universe itself as a
   living entity and all that is contained within it, as an integral part of
   this entity: all of it alive?  I certainly do not know the answers, but I
   do know how we will achieve the answers.

       And you say: "Ah!  he's going to say, through poetry!" But it's not.
   What it is though, is vision.  The vision of the seer, the vision of the
   poet-seer.  And what is this vision?  Well, it's not, as some would have
   it, science fiction; nor is it a political formula; it's a hunch, a "gut
   reaction"; it's a crow dropping pebbles on the head of some official,
   resulting in a revelation; it's a bunch of coincidences; it's a survivor
   in an avalanche; it's a poet alone, in a darkened room, dank with dusty
   books, contemplating life.  It's even a drunk fumbling with a key to open
   a door which is still unlocked.  It's the realization of the obvious.

   Ultimately it's what touches us in the most unexpected way; it's when we
   open our eyes and for the first time see what had always been there but
   which we could not acknowledge because we refused to experience the
   vision, the reality, the moment, the single moment that is us.
   Ultimately it's the experiences we cannot understand, rather than those
   we can.  An experience which makes us ask further questions, and an
   answer which continues to pose questions.  That which makes us grow, not
   just a species on a singular rock of blue and green, but that which makes
   us grow as universal entities merging with the "All-and-the-Beyond".
   That which is the inexhaustible well of wisdom which some have called the
   Holy Grail.

       It has often been said: questions raise no answers, but only other
   questions.  I believe this true.  And ultimately, in a formulated logic,
   that might well be the only truth we can believe.  And the closer we seem
   to get to what seems the ultimate answer, the closer we come to what
   seems to be the ultimate question.  And what is the ultimate question?
   What's beyond.

       It is worth ruminating on what Cavafis said in his poem Ithaka:

           "When returning to Ithaka, and you find Ithaka
           Poor and barren: it is not Ithaka that matters most,
           But the journey and the knowledge you have gained
           Upon the journey. That's what matters most."

       As long as we remember that, the more enriched we'll be, not just as
   individuals, or as a species, but ultimately as universal entities
   evolving beyond our wildest dreams.



                                          ╥ ╓─  ─╥─      ╓───       ╖
                                       ── ╟─╨╖   ║       ║ ╓╖ ╓╖ ╓╖ ║/ ╓╖ ╓╖
                                          ╨  ╨ ╙─╜       ╙──╜ ╙─ ╙  ╙╙ ╙─ ╙╙


   THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Waiting's no fun...neither wanting
   something that perfects itself without you being there...
   anyway...right or wrong...even those eternal happy lovers
   must gather the toys of remembrance from under mouldy bedsheets
   once in awhile.  The music stifles imbecility...
   even the mood can never be all preconceived...
   the shape of her breasts or tuft of hair that matters most
   (but matters really not at all) through perfect grace...that is
   feeling that can rarely be held so much a bay...
   (even wild horses couldn't drag the troops away).
   Insanity never recalls to mention it.
   The hollow dreamboat of desire
   always needs a master at the helm....
   such is the only truth that gives us those emotions...
   and if anger or pain or hate or fear
   creep out of the casket
   those who hold it open are too struck
   by the beauty of this false eternity
   to ever contemplate their own security.

   The scream is always heard
   in fact, that is the only music that does not
   escape us. It is always that tone that we most remember
   from our innocence...

   Even the heaviness of Lear must recall absurdity.
   The old man like a recluse in a cave...
   perhaps the rain would drench the cape of our indifference
   lashed against the trembling of a much refused desire...
   so much is abuse
   that when we stand before that only miracle
   its reasoning escapes our sanity
   locks up the key behind the door of simple fright...
   and then the night...the aloneness of togetherness
   the passionate embrace
   which like a broken razor blade
   one's much too frightened to use right
   because the wound might be just deep enough
   that scars result from nothing there at all.
   But is it nothing? - Is it a refusal to acknowledge the refusal
   of
   a dream?
   Even madmen dream...but madmen
   also sleep at night.

   If you think you spend the night alone, you are very wrong.
   Each single moment of your past endeavours is always at odds
        with the present
   insurgence of a loneliness - something no one wants,
   yet pays to have. And why not?
   It's a table set for two, but still unstained.
   It's a candle burned much to the ground of your desire.
   It's a book with pages uncut, read by x-ray eyes.
   That is how one's loneliness uses one,
   not like freedom of a cause,
   but like the poison of an asp
   you've let be comforter.

   But really, it's a relationship you've understood,
   mindlessly, perhaps, but still so well,
   that nothing can deter your mourning for a jesters skull.
   Perhaps the meaning's always dear. Perhaps not more
        dear for the fences
   that it springs upon us unawares.
   The few words that no one understands are always those
   that need that understanding - and what of art?
   Why reason for a suffering? a curse that punches through
   without quite the willingness, quite the curiosity to explore
        farther
   And what of love? of, well, Ophelia and Helen? the mindless
        imbecility
   (never clear cut) that shadows each of us
   and all of them?

   Well, so much for suffering...And how about the image?
   What do we see, hear, smell, taste?
   What is the embitterment of the universal agon? God?
   I wouldn't have presumed...(poison's always better than bad
        blood).

   Poet! the image is incertitude!
   How to accept the fact that a relationship
   needs the faltering as a farmer needs
   the fences to mould and crack and fall apart.
   Relationship, poet, that is mending!
   not much good if nothing bends.

   They say a tiger in a cage leads a longer life than those who
        have their
   freedom to themselves...it's trying to escape that matters most
        not incarceration.
   And, poet, this relationship, it's like as if
   you are waiting ripe corn before you've even planted the seed.
   That's the surest way to trample on the root of man.
   That's the certain way virginity remains the virgin,
   that blood will challenge blood
   and afterlife will never be a simple reason
   to forget or to recall the milestone of refusal
   you think you've brought on to yourself.
   It's never that, but it always is
   throughout creation, do you think a chance was never missed?

   Even the unkindest cut of all is less an abrasion of reality,
        even falsified reality,
   in which we tightly sleep like needles in a pin cushion.

   Needless to say, the prisoner escapes, he always does.
   Society is never any better off for the loss of a few religious
        symbols...
   an idyll refrains from itself simply when the rites,
   those rites are never powerful enough
   to overcome even the simplest example
   of existentialism. It may not have been perfect in its conception
   but...

   Rays of freedom proliferate. The fog that gathers
   our eternity, as when with forceps the doctor
   forces the child refusing to be born
   (tied off at two ends - cut between)
   into the primal scream!
   If we were fed by this: passion of
   Ophelia - lilies on a stagnant pond,
   we might smell of want, but walls are still the same,
   shutting out what they proliferate,
   relegate to those fantastic nuisances
   that are never frozen by conception. It's a game
   that children often play amongst their elders.
   It's a universe of accepted definitions, ill defined yet
        very definite...
   Legally there is no voice. The voice one makes
   must be less than what acceptance writes with pointless awe...

   Even now, the critics sanctify the music on the radio.
   It's part of everything. If we hide away all our sacrifices,
   stealing glimpses of what might have been, we will run
   headstrong into a wall put there by ourselves.
   In our dreams we tear them down - perhaps,
   perhaps we still need them in reality,
   like the killing of an ant never matters much to us
   until we are ourselves an ant giving substance
        to obeisance.
   Like god laughs with thunder in his eyes and a dragon in her
        mouth.
   Of this insane laughter, can we ever find a cure?
   Perhaps...well, perhaps everything and nothing all at once, for
   all embraces silence
                       and the void.

   But we can never be sure.
   Must certainty always be such an obscure disease?
   Neither doctor, nor nurse can help with that.
   The poet dreams inviolate amusements...
   and if the bed of truth doesn't creak tonight it's because
        the floor has melted
   to a perfect joke to tell a friend.
   They say that a praying mantis eats it's mate.
   When we return to that can the shadows of love ever be obscene
        again?
   And Hamlet would tell those naughty tales that will make a virgin
        blush red rose...
   But neither, in due course, needs explanation.
   Hamlet wasn't mad, but he was a fool.
   Yorik was the wisest of the lot. Yorik with his skull
   that Holan doesn't dare to mention.
   Well...perhaps he does...after all, it's the thought that counts:
   the simplicity of each emotion.  Even Helen's skull
   was hardly identifiable after so many years in Hades
   (It wasn't even the most beautiful of the lot..
   but they forget to tell us that...they take pity on the myth
        itself).

   Sadness forces us to re-direct our energy into an ecstatic
        pandemonium...
   no less for the mask we wear and take off at a masquerade -
   no less for the inflated raft to escape to a deserted place
   nearer to society than freedom is alone...
   And so Oedipus Rex violated this insane perfection...
   he couldn't have helped it - after all, the blind leading the
       blind
   get somewhere...
   It is only we, the sighted, who are blind...
   but that is nothing new...
   like sex with too sweet cream lost in the afternoon,
   one is always at one's own indiscretion.
   Subordinates always, (in fact, it's their right) snicker...
   but to take notice of the abyss when the dark conceals the fate
   of three white doves...
   that is another story, challenged by the history of
   volatile emotions. In fact, the too few who agree,
   do not so much agree, but vanquish with the whips of hate
   a forceful union based on principle - like the ceremony of a
        suicide,
   who reaches out, not for understanding, but to understand -
   No wonder the heart of the world weighs heavy on the soul of
        chance.
   The castrated do not pull away, but they attack -
   even the rivers laugh at them:
   for what cannot drown must drown in air -
   and it is more or less a photograph that leads the thought
   back to those ideals that never where.

   They wanted to be martyrs but didn't want to go that far...
   It's like old underwear, after a while the body accepts its own
        filth -
   no one cares anymore - and the garbage heap becomes
   another Oxyrhynchus - another archaeologist dream -
   of course the have good noses - they're like bloodhounds on the
        make,
   a piece of ash in the greatest part of a debate -
   a debacle of modest pride priced above the sky -
   and isn't much of any passion just the same? for instance,
   to play at waiting we must masturbate without the
   satisfaction of a scented holocaust - we're not so far removed
   that we cannot see the empty mirror that reflects our sex -
   we recall each single moment in a perfect harmony,
   like bobcats on a picket fence - which brings us back to
   what was won through Helen's rape...
   I doubt that we could ever find the curtain drawn aside,
   and poor old Homer "Blind as a bat", but bats have finer
   sonar than the right of way beneath the stars -
   Bats are hardly blind, they just see a whole lot better...

   When a child cries and the ravagement of death is near
   the open door to empty corridors and sutured calling cards
   isn't then that the game must always be all out for everything
   and even nothing that has so much to give beyond the triple rose
      is quite the hangman's game...
   Even Robspierre had little to say in the way of sympathy...
   Once the point is made the image of retreat looms near -
   very like the darts of melted time
   across Da Vinci's forehead:
   eagle eyes that penetrate a mole's darkness.
   Again Lear creeps in, sheepskin touching naked flesh -
   It is not much the rain that matters anyway,
   it's who you're with and what you do - Even solitude
   must need its comforted
   just to notice that the execution doesn't always come at dawn -
   Time's pre-eminence doesn't always follow human need.
   The foibles of the innocent are not at all concerned with this...
   their duty is to refusal - their duty is towards a blade of grass,
   an ear of corn, an unturned page, a dream come true.
   They are never prisoners, either of themselves or others -
   How could they be? - Such situations arise for those
   who accept the vision of their duty (which controls all nature)
   with the breath of purity -

   So, Casanova came out of the shadows and spoke very freely that
      he even
   very much surprised himself:
   "Well, anyway, it filters the air - everything that is not a
   mask must be violated - is that it?
   damn you - if you think that I, I this I,
   this flesh, this feeling, can't also feel disgust and violence...
   well then, tear that mask apart - I'd rather there was violence,
   a show of emotion than falsehood -
   and even when you admire all your 'conquests'
   a sexual imbalance results which places you far below what any
   man should be -
   If you do not feel anything, what's the use of living then?
   If it's a cocoon you want, then jump into the bathtub filled with
      lard -

   Anyway, don't hurt others more emotional than you - a cocoon is
      for those
   who want to be alone - for those who hate themselves
   so much that they force a false reality upon themselves
   and thinks that that could be the only truth - Your falsehood
   is an abomination - shape up, man, or get out of it -"

   In this way Casanova went back to what he was.
   He made no excuses -
   I have never heard anyone talk like that, but it must be said.
   In truth, he was talking to himself, his own mirror image, his
   own shadow (call it conscience, if you will, it doesn't matter what),
   he was forcing himself to feel those emotions
   he could never comprehend before - Even love was never part
   of his vocabulary.
   He became a librarian just to read those pornographic novels
   he once thought he had as life.
   He had come to realize that everything he had
   faded away because of it.
   He always blamed it on others...he didn't see himself...
   the mirror always was deceptive.

   But it didn't last...and I don't think it ever was
   himself that spoke. Perhaps I spoke; perhaps even Silence...

   - - - - - - - - - -

   You see how it is? No one cares about the poison,
   until they themselves are forced to put the cup there for themselves
   to drink from... by that time they have lost those insights
   that they wanted so to fathom -.
   Needless to say, like a roasted pig, they didn't get
   to see their finest hour. Their ideals were far too
   obstinate. And even if they've escaped the butcher's block,
   what have they won? What gained?
   Do they know themselves any better? Well, perhaps...
   But still, it's the walls; especially at night,
   quite alone a night, that each must be
   confronted with - there's no star to guide them anymore,
   and a storm is brewing from the west...

   How does a man stake his claim on another human being?
   Does one ever stake a claim, or does one just manipulate?
   Was the rape of Helen justified, or was Paris mad?
   Love is such a curious emotion; it's like balancing on a
   tight rope with a noose around your neck -
   The slightest intervention, even by the wind...
   the wind that brings the words...that even shakes
      the universe.

   .   .   .   .   .

   To gain a foothold...
   to gain a moment of precise fidelity,
   and for two days now you have brought together
   thunder from above and water from below:
   there is conflict in your life.
   What frozen corpses are there yet to be buried?

   You have learned much, all too fast and all too cruel:
   perhaps it's time to assimilate whatever offerings
   you have brought upon yourself.

   Gain a foothold, poet...

   Even Hamlet had cause to retreat -
   cause to vanquish himself from the influence of her who
   forced his recognition.
   But life is filled with consequences that we set in motion
   and cannot control.
   Thought before action never is that easy:
   to come to grips with yourself is even worse -
   it's easy to crush a blade of grass because we do
   not analyze the situation - but that still
   does not excuse the act.

   Poet, to regain yourself, to have what you want,
   to be certain of your actions...
   "Aye, there's the rub!" Hamlet out from behind the curtains,
   like a bold and overzealous Claudius.
   What else could he say? He had a fine writer of speeches
   to put those words in his mouth...

   You are still alone. There is no sympathy
   from any quarter of the world
   that you have known from insignificance.

   - - - - - - -

   And the wine is not blood. And what we believe is
   not all that really is. And you should know by now
   that "fields of ruin" never vanish with the mystic night
   of would-have-been...

   Alas now, the poet speaks, "A wedding in black
   can never be a mask - like a poet's only salvation
   is the wine he has no need to drink - It is the emptiness
   of an emotion felt too much - It is the emotion of a
   loss that is not yet a loss at all -
   And it is not true that beginnings are the hardest -
   it's the following through - the coming to grips with the
   reality of the situation that poisons all our hopes and even our
       deepest dreams -
   Perforce to say, that there is nothing worse than doubt that will
   metamorphose to fear before your awe-struck eyes...
   That consumes the whole of everything...What's left? What is
       really left
   without a voice to guide one? without a hunchback for protection?
   without a secret love and the spiciness of an intrigue?
   what is left when fear robs you blind? when madness twists your mind
   and contorts your face with the image of a false religion?
   And what do you notice, here before you, here before this
   audience of empty chairs
   and swinging coat hangers that lovers never have a need to
       use...yes
   and this I, this bleeding poet opening his veins upon the sand of
       innocence...
   shaking hands with lost illusions, with the music of a pride
       castrated long ago...
   and of course this violence, this nether realm of those emotions
   locked away behind a painted door upon the wall...even we can
       enter here
   leaving behind the black mirror of an ancient disposition we hang
       on to
   because we cannot see the other side...

   Yes, and what about that love? what about the way we manipulate
       it
   through hate... yes, and even that is not uncertain in all of us.
       We hold
   just too many ill defined conceptions... and the greatest is the
       misconception
   of that desperate silence... love, so ill expressed, that we lose
       despite
   a feeling of sincerity... Yes, and even I, I cannot be trusted in
       the game of love!
   Do you understand? I will covet my neighbour's wife if given half
       the chance,
   because I am still the Minotaur...What pride if left? The pride
       of destroying another human being
   for the trust they showed? Is that what all of love should be
       about?
   So see them there, why do I bother? a wall would be a better
       listener...
   And is anyone ever so naive as not to see the battered walls of
       chance
   resound with a furious ingratitude...?

   Perhaps I shouldn't speak at all... Lear may yet have told the
       truth
   by hiding in a cave... But it's the Space Age now and all we care
       about
   is a hollow sexuality. About the truth... I see nothing in
       confession...
   Nothing wrong that is... Why hide yourself away with dour
       incertitude
   when the air has very few poison darts...? And those there are
   we dodge them every day... Yes, and it is also hard to make up
       one's mind...
   very hard indeed, concerning those events that change one's life
   in a very direct and difficult way. One never 'plans' these
       episodes -
   but one does, one might be blind to them at the time of their
      conception
   but that stage is all too real...

   It was a dark day, a day of rain
   she spoke about the acquisition of student loans
   of course I wasn't all that interested in the topic
   I came only because she was alone
   I came only to see her
   She told me later that she was very frightened of me that day
   She got dressed up and wanted me to take her out
   We were just about to go when it began to rain again
   She was incredibly beautiful
   with her newly cut dark hair which she couldn't get to shape the
      way
   she wanted
   to the nervous energy and
   how she told me that I looked exactly like her husband
   and that oh if I only did not look so much like him
   The restaurant was dark with red table cloths and music which was
   much
       too loud
   I only drank a beer
   The conversation swayed from all to all
   To how we waste our energies and friends their mental
   capabilities
   I said that as a poet I must nurture all neuroses
   She laughed and repeated the phrase
   Turned it over with her tongue
   I waited for a single sign I had not found it
   until that moment where she said If only you did not
   so much look like him, if only...

   Through the rain going back to the apartment
   Will you invite me up again?
   Yes
   I fell in love with her
   And yes, there are lies in love
   and yes, too, there is deception
   and the next time that I saw her
   not too many days from then
   he was there, and she was walking around in her nightgown
   showing off her charms
   and she sent him out to get some milk and told mr how afraid she
      was
   that night alone with me
   and how everything seemed suddenly alright
   and how I took that as a light to follow through the darkness
      of the path that I had cut
   through this the jungle of a poet's dreams
   and that how I was in love with her
   and that, yes, there are those lies in love
   and also deception

   and how we were all later on
   after there no longer were any secrets
   and he acted so childish to her and that I
   jumped on him with It's time now to grow up
   and how shocked he was
   and how he looked at me and then at her
   he left for a moment and she told me how much
   she was in agreement and had wanted to say those things
   to him herself
   and that he treated her so cruelly... not cruelly in a physical
      sense
   but cruelly in a mental aberration of insensitivity
   and how that day I wanted her
   and how I couldn't stand her there with him
   and how I left I had to leave
   I didn't want to leave
   but what was there to do I who loved her so
   I who followed every lie
   I who shook deception's hand

   And then how she phoned me
   and that I told her all the truth
   Is there anything she asked
   What do you think
   Yes there is
   I want to see you
   Me
   Yes you
   Only you
   When
   Make time
   and how deception smiled black eyed in the wilderness
   And how I was there I who held life in such sanctity
   I giver of the word Seeker of the truth
   I was there to murder all for her
   To sacrifice everything for her embrace
   for the sent of her holding me so captivated
   there at the edge of the precipice

   So much dawned on me that night
   so much dawned
   and if we live again
   if we live again
   what chances do we take
   what choices do we hold
   and what throw freely to the wind
   what feelings sacrifice for those we sanctify
   and how I loved her well with lies
   how I promised to do everything for her
   how I was and am the blinded minotaur
   charging at his own image in the black mirror smeared with his
   own blood
   smeared by his own fear and jealousy and hate
   and what image does he see there behind his shoulder
   the image of deception
   and he tried to turn away
   turn his back away
   no matter what he turns toward his destiny...

   - - - - -

   Well, I see the audience is stunned - better to be stunned than
   have no
   reaction at all... that's what I always say. Nicht Wahr?..."

   ...

   The poet, hunched over leaves the stage in sorrow and to an
       almost silent applause
   from his conscience... he doesn't even hear that. It is still
       only
   her he sees. One cannot remain in love forever; nor out of it...
   But
       how much more does he have to
   deny himself to make that one effort that will not be
   fraught with fear? -

   So the poet came back. This time he wore the mask of Pagliacci.
   He wanted tears painted on so real that he couldn't wipe them off
       again.
   He wanted a lot of things that simply were denied him... he
   wanted to go
       after them,
   but somehow held himself back. His melancholy knocked him down
   and the
       difficulty of love
   propped him up again with hasty promises and new found hopes
       bound
   by genetic chains in stagnant cesspools - but the poet like an
   acrobat
       must always
   breathe the air of survival, even if he falters - he must taste
   the
       consequences of every fruit,
   even that which comes from poison vines - otherwise how can he
   call
       himself a poet?
   how indeed describe the world without ever having been a part of
       it?
   the poet always meets his fate head on - not always granted for
       the better,
   but he has a knack of knowing when he must retreat - not give up
       - for retreat
   is only part of harmony - as is waiting - Listen, here the poet
   speaks
       again:

  "I don't like what's happening, these emotions I have never
       wanted to feel.
   I don't want them now - I would rather hide away again, but know
   that
       it's too close -
   one's feet in mud and cannot run away - waiting is the perfect
   opportunity, now that further action would only complicate the
       matter -
   I will wait - what have I to lose? - no matter which way I turn
   I run headlong into fate..."
   . . . . . . .
   Nothing ever comes to an end
   it all melts back into the beginning
   just as a knife sharpened is dependent
   on the blunting of the blade
   to make a living
   we blunt a relationship
   to build it up again
   Whether we do it on purpose
   or it just happens
   that is hard to say
   Nature's laws are very wide
   and difficult and we are like
   her children attempting and integral calculus
   with grade one mathematics
   It just can't be done
   or perhaps it can
   but have just not found the way
   to go about it

   And the poet believed himself to be above it all
   he believed that he could beat the odds
   but the odds are what?
   he's like Icarus, waxen wings and all
   he's like the bull that sees the red cape but doesn't see the
   sword
       behind it
   he sees the object of his desire
   he doesn't see the wall surrounding her
   and he doesn't scale the wall or even attempt to come through the
   open
       front door
   he attempts to ram it down

   Poet! nurture your discretion!
   there are very few who survive this way
   and even if they do one has only frightened the object of desire
       away
   by a show of such blind violence...

   Wait, poet... Wait with feet in mud and the ocean lapping at your
   feet
      if you have to,
   but wait...
   no matter how difficult... It is the path that you have chosen
   and you'll get there
   but sometimes you can only go so far
   and have to wait for the obstacle to clear itself
   sometimes you have to wait for her to come to you
   and waiting that is difficult
   teaches you a lot more things
   than rushing blindly forth can ever do
   If icarus had taken his flight slowly
   his wings would not have melted and at least
   he would again have safely
   come back down to earth
   Have patience poet, with your heart aflame
   and your mind untamed... waiting after all
   might yet be the only truthful way to gain...


                                        -- Klaus J. Gerken, 1979

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    expulsive defecance
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    i don't care
     and i don't want to care
      cause i care too much

        ( so few really even bother
           trying
            anything )

    it's twisted
     a sort of a shared impotence
    just swallowing
     spitting up
      but never getting anything done

    why should i care?
    why should i bother?
    why should i look out for Number-One?
     who is this Number-One anyways?
      and since when did i owe him anything?

    i don't owe anyone anything
     i wasn't anything to you
      don't expect difference from me

    i wanna hit something
      but my fists are already a bloodied mess
          i need a drink
            but all the bottles lay empty and broken on the floor
                i need a smoke
                  maybe this cancer stick will be the one that breaks my neck
                      i gotta get laid again
                        not that it means anything to anyone anyways
                            i wanna die
                              so what if a life ain't worth that much at all

    just tired of all my bitching
      and sick of all your lies
    can't stand your ignorance
      it's not on what i thrive
    despise is about all i got
      mixed in with fatigued distrust

    i'm corroding into your image
      into something i can't hide
        and can't forget

    i'm running up a hill in neutral
        but i'm going down both ways
    don't know how much longer my high will last
        can't judge the distance till the next blast

    i look like shit
     i feel like shit
      maybe i should get the clue

      scared of staying
     tired of running
    where the Hell's this getting me?

             not pity
          ain't mercy
       not even tears
    are enough for me

    i don't wanna
    i don't needa
    i don't ...
    i just
    don't.


                                                -Igal Koshevoy (lh^m)
                                                 February 7, 1994; 3:31am

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   Today
   ~~~~~

          "Today is the greatest
           Day I've ever known
           Can't live for tomorrow
           Tomorrow's much too long"

                                        -- Smashing Pumpkins "Today"


   These words do not come to me-
   I come to them-
   For today-
   Today
   I have learned what life is
   Perhaps I have known-
   Now I have been.
   Today I have seen an acquaintance- freshly married-
   Now a friend-
   I have heard of a friend's friend's friend's suicide-
   I've felt the tears-
   Today I have tried to soften my sister's fear of death-
   She has spoken <and I have known>-
        The collective energy; we shall return to,
        And this soothed our hearts-
        But what of our thoughts-
        Minds-
        Feelings-
        Souls-

   Of this I thought
   Of this I know-
        In life's mural <as yet unfinished>,
        We paint our lives-
        They solidify when we are gone-
        Gone to the Energy.
   Life does not die
   But stiffens, as a corpse-

   Souls are wooden-
   <to be carved>
   Thoughts are steel-
   <to be moulded>
   Minds are rocks-
   <to be sculpted>
   Lives are clay-
   <to be formed-
   <to be finished-
   <to be hardened for eternity>

   We paint this mural <collectively>
   We choose the paint-
   We choose the brush-
   We choose the canvas-
   We choose-
   Yet
   We are merely parts-
   Some large
   Some not-
   We choose-
   We choose.
   These words do not come to me-
   I come to them.
   These words are
   <as of now>
   Soft-
   As I form
   <my energy alone -unhampered>
   This is all I can do-
   This is all I can ask-
   There is no power looming-
   There is no barrier set-
   Unhampered-
   I live today-
   Happy.

   These words do not come to me-
   Nor would I want them served-
   I paint my section-
   Chisel my part-
   As large- As small as I want
   Free-

   The future will be Today-
   The past has been Today-
   Do not await the future
   Do not revere the past
   Paint the mural
   Carve the wood
   Create-
   For life is purpose-
   Give your growth-
   It will not be forgotten-
   It will not be forgotten.

   Today-
   Before your life's solidified-
   Today.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin

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   The Bird
   ~~~~~~~~

   I've never cried as much as the time when the bird died-
   The bird that had died<as all birds must> I had found with a broken wing-
   I myself set the wing, and built the box for him to live in.
   He was happy, and so was I.
   After the bird's wing healed I worked him out, because a tame bird
      doesn't last.
   I made him chase after live worms that I was pulling along-
   I jumped at him to make him move quickly-
   I fought with him so he could fight back-
   And when he was ready for the outdoors-
   And when I wasn't ready to let him go-
   It was then I knew I must.
   So I took him outside, and- Softly, set him upon the grass.
   There he sat.
   I jumped at him, and he flowed into the air.
   That was the first time I'd seen him fly outside-
   That was also the last.

   Months later, before the leaves were completely gone, although most were,
   The bird came back to me.
   He was injured.
   He breathed heavily and quickly.
   I wished, as if I had one wish to be granted, that the bird would stop
        breathing so heavy and quick.
   And he did.

   I went into the garage for the wood.
   I built this box myself, also.
   His eyes were glassed over by the time I put him in.
   He was stiff and cold.
   I will never forget how he looked, then, right before I put the cover
      over him.
   I had a funeral, and it rained.
   It rained as if there was a tornado coming; a tornado without wind.
   I covered him with dirt, and packed it down hard.
   I didn't mark the grave.
   I know where I buried the bird:  Against the center of the wall behind
      the garage.
   The box was touching the unyielding cement of the wall when I put him in.
   It was then that I cried- with the rain, and the black clothes, and the
      vivid picture of the dead bird in my mind.
   The memory of the bird has never haunted me, he has never come to life
      in my dreams, he has never moved.
   He is always stiff, cold and glassy-eyed.

    And so am I.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin

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   One Way
   ~~~~~~~

   I saw a man walking a sidewalk-
   I saw him meet a street sign:
   ONE WAY - THIS WAY ONLY
   He shook his head and walked on-

   He walked the other way.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin

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   Where has all the Passion gone
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Where has all the passion gone-
   It's left a wisp of hollow song,
   It's left a shadow- growing long,
   It's made a child not belong-

   I sit and watch a painting die-
   The canvas rot, the oil dry;
   I sit and watch a suicide-
   Death is born, Life has died-

   Future holds not yesterday-
   Instead it shows more of today
   Bitterness sweeps far and wide-
   Truth is known- But denied.

   The more I see, the less I cry-
   My body growing stiff inside...
   I sit and watch a painting die-
   The canvas rot- the oil dry.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin

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   That Comes Under Moon
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   What is in the feeling
   That comes under moon-
   In summer eves or whistling leaves
   In dimly light or blue of night
   In loneliness or friendliness
   In quiet fright or sharpened sight
   The feeling that misplaces us
   In single solitude:
   Calm of soul; lightless hole,
   The evening leaves us blank-
   A walking talking meditation
   Enlightenment ensues-

   The secret of all holiness-
   Let out when guards asleep,
   Night and night drift apart
   Soul awakened to do its deed.

   Night of power, night of strength!
   Fill my emptied soul
   Blueness sad and blueness good
   Shines down to pierce our heightened mood-
   Let me be a channel of power
   Let me course with might-
   Cleanse my routes with energy
   Cleanse my rusted life-
   Give me purpose-
   Give me need-
   Electrocute my plodding mind-
   Burn this dreary dying child-
   Alight my darkness with the night.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin

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   Burial Cycle
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Inching toward his resting place-
   A shaded cove of nothingness-
   Rock- Dirt- Grass- Mud-
   Death upon him- Quick-

   Alone- He's died in comfort-
   Free at last from defending,
   Accepting life's cycle-
   Yet not being conquered-

   So all the things that live-
   Come here to rest-
   And all the things that eat-
   Come here to feast-

   But when a plate is served-
   It is never eaten raw,
   The dying moment respected
   With Privacy- From all.


                                        -- Jim Yagmin

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   Entropy
   ~~~~~~~

   Time's arrow flows
   One direction only,
   Toward the throws
   of the final entropy.

   Chaos reigns supreme
   on that final day,
   God shall deem
   an end to men's way.

   But shall god be
   shackled by the fall,
   restricted by Entropy
   that consumes all?

   Will he reverse time,
   destroying destruction,
   or simply climb
   down from his position?


                                        -- Alvin Brinson
                                           March 2, 1993

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   Lost
   ~~~~

   Years the Earth had
   only us to
   view her innocence
   we called her lovely,
   worshipped the beauty,
   made her home.
   Didn't occur that
   we thought she was more
   than the rock deserved.
   One day the
   Sentients came,
   told the truth
            <chorus>
   She's not the only one,
   they told us,
   there's more than the sun,
   Behold Us!
   There are a million
   Behold Them!
            <short segue>
   You can have it all
   just surrender now,
   came the radio call.
   We come in peace
   across the space
   to show you all.
            <repeat above chorus>
       <spoken>
   Last of the innocent,
   we surrendered then.
   Now we're lost,
   home, vain, home,
   not ours again,
   scattered to the wind....
            <repeat above chorus>
       <instrumental ending>


                                        -- Alvin Brinson

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   What I Know
   ~~~~~~~~~~~

   Where rests the psyche so situated
   As to claim infinity;
   Boasts its thoughts articulated
   Are modes of divinity?

   This salival beast:
   Its song is sung
   With outnumbered tongue
           Save that which licks my conceit.


                                        -- William Gust

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   Night Rider
   ~~~~~~~~~~~

   Tell me Love, tell me true,
   Is this the end for me and you?

   Where did we go wrong?
   I hear that solitude song.

   Once upon a lover,
   Now it's only a cover.

   Here comes the rain,
   Here come my train.

   Gone but not forgot,
   I do think of you alot.

   The shelter of the streets,
   My heart still beats.

   The keeper of the dark,
   I hear your dogs begin to bark.

   I ride the wings of the night,
   The neon is burning bright.

   Here come the sun,
   It's time for me to run.

   Retreat to these dark walls,
   Will return when the night falls.

   Hear the cry of the child,
   Hear the call of the wild.

   Of this world I'm born,
   My soul still rides on.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Love Knows No Color
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   What can you tell me from the color of my skin?
   Nigger, cracker, nip, hymie is not my name.
   Some think that they are better than most,
   My but the blood still does flow the same.

   Love is not born to color and never will be,
   Love instead of hate would make for a better place.
   Martin Luther's "I have a dream." rings hollow,
   Why does anything have to based on sex, creed, or race?

   Why can't people see a person instead of color?
   A veteran of value or basic human rights?
   The racism of today deeply saddens me,
   Why can't we get along, always ending in fights.

   The bigots keep fanning their flames of racism,
   Hung up on themselves, they have nothing better to do.
   Wished I understood the hate groups but I don't,
   When is a person not a person to you?

   Would be great if the world changed, but it won't,
   Hooked on the past, just one excuse after another.
   Sisters and Brothers of all races I embrace you all,
   For surely, Love, knows no color.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   TIME
   ~~~~

   I stand alone against the changing tide of time,
   All the unfilled dreams just one page after another.
   Mindless games people play with the lives of others,
   Children searching for the hand of their mother.

   Seems like were caught in a scene from another play,
   That just keeps repeating itself over and over.
   Always a beginning but never an ending to all of this,
   Cling to the leaf of hope from a four leaf clover.

   Misery finds another victim in it's endless search,
   They seem to come easier to find these days.
   A drink or a drug numbs the pain for a little while,
   Doesn't look like anyone is willing to change their ways.

   The more one wants to live in this ugly world,
   The more one feels like leaving it someday soon.
   Sleep brings a little escape till one awakes,
   Reality sets back in, want to crawl inside a cocoon.

   Patience brought on the years of tears,
   An apple on a table, a candle in a window.
   Thoughts procure a different state of mind,
   Waves on the horizon come both high and low.

   Time does heal all wounds of one's heart,
   But the pain never seems to go away.
   The happiness a child outgrows in a later life,
   Is this the time, or is time another day?


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Everyday Life
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   And so the story goes,
   The final chapter left untold.
   Time goes on day by day,
   Destiny beckoning his life into fold.

   Watching the people and the cars go by,
   Watching the wind blow through the leaves.
   Sometimes sit and wonder why,
   Everything seems to run through a sieve.

   Seasons change as do hearts,
   Children laugh people cry.
   Kids grow up and people die,
   I breathe a deep and humble sigh.

   Life has many lessons to learn,
   And a short time to learn them in.
   We sense what's right and wrong,
   Emotions and feelings mostly win.

   I gaze up at the deep blue sky,
   Wonder when its my turn to die.
   Funny how things remain the same,
   The streets don't change but the name.

   As time goes fast and slowly by,
   I haven't the time to cry.
   Will have to give something new a try,
   So I don't sit and wonder why.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   A Lonely Road
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Tis a lonely road that I hoe,
   To take my weight and travel.
   Have no where to go or no one to see,
   Beneath me I feel the shifting gravel.

   Is there so much pain to be gained,
   Or am I just lost forever.
   There's always a way in but not out,
   Time just passes forever and ever.

   When it rains it shines,
   Falling in my eyes to hide the pain.
   Never once wanting to remain,
   In a world with so much disdain.

   I learned how to laugh,
   And I learned how to cry.
   Maybe its the time,
   That I learn how to die.

   There is word of a better world,
   Its something that have to discover.
   I'm a jack-of-all trades master of none,
   Just a down and out sometimes lover.

   As the final chapter comes to a close,
   And the final curtain comes down.
   As time chooses the final fate,
   I make my last and final sound.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Out in the Park
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Its dark, quiet out in the park.
   I fear, at times I sense the end is near.
   To fall, out of a world that is nothing at all.
   To spend, love and money to the end.
   Open door, so much to give there is no more.
   In a crowd, I'm a stranger in a world not too proud.
   Give up, try this kindness from my cup.
   Do the lonely sleep?
   Do lovers love?
   Is there hell below?
   A heaven in the sky above?

   Too blind, to see the hand behind.
   Too deaf, to hear the people with their dying breath.
   Can't smell, the sickness that causes so much hell.
   No touch, to feel the people that love me so much.
   No taste, to tell what's just a waste.
   Not caring, to the point of not sharing.
   Cast a light, take these memories from my sight.
   Do the wealthy live a life?
   What's the price for fame?
   Is this all just an illusion?
   Or is life but a game?


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Love and Romance
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   As the music plays its lonesome melody,
   Looking for lonesome hearts that are free.
   Sometimes they meet and wanting to be,
   With someone wanting only me.

   Welcoming each other with open arms,
   Never wanting to cause harm.
   A heart once broken causes alarm,
   Not to be taken in by one's charms.

   Cautious at first then they give in,
   Hoping the other's heart to win.
   Gaze into her eyes as he raises her chin,
   Then all at once comes a small grin.

   Their lips for the first time touch,
   Both wanting each other so very much.
   Their lives being lonely heartache and such,
   Glad just to have someone to clutch.

   Both not wanting another one night stand,
   Holding tightly each other's hand.
   Walking barefooted in the moonlit sand,
   Each trying desperately to understand.

   They wake up to another new day,
   Wanting tonight to end the same way.
   Hoping fate's hand will have its say,
   Not leaving things alone and grey.

   Can't help think its another empty dream,
   Thoughts of you make me beam.
   You in my arms along side a peaceful stream,
   Its more than I could ever redeem.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   The Poet Writes Their Poem
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Sometimes putting their feelings in rhyme,
   Trying to capture that one thought and point in time.
   Putting into words and describing their very soul,
   Putting everything in line at times takes it toll.

   But we wouldn't have it any other way,
   Writing to what your mind is trying to say.
   Striving to always keep the mind clear and free,
   Taking things to heart as they ought to be.

   Writing about love, pain, and the nature of things,
   The trees, the dreams, and the bird that sings.
   The whole scope of life and to them what it means,
   People, places, and different landscape scenes.

   Everyday life and all its sights and sounds,
   Brings everything together and quite profound.
   Never needing theory to explain its way,
   Just an open mind and trying not to stray.

   Putting their inner feelings for the world to see,
   Hoping people understand the poem as its meant to be.
   Always will write about things they feel,
   And turn it into something that is real.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Changing Seasons of My Life
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   I feel the sun on my face,
   The wind in my hair.
   I see the many colors of this world,
   I smell all different odors in the air.

   I know the change in seasons,
   Reflecting the changes in my life.
   At times I wished it would never end,
   There will come for the drum and fife.

   Always so busy to do the things,
   That really aren't that important.
   And sometimes not too busy,
   For the ones that aren't that distant.

   So much that goes on nowadays,
   And different decisions that you must make.
   At times there just doesn't seem enough time in the day,
   For all the things we face in this endless lake.

   I see the rain on the grave,
   The rain on my hair.
   I feel a disillusioned world,
   I smell death in the air.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Flowers In The Rain
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Does a flower ever cry in the rain?
   Ever since you touch the keys to my heart.
   I have been trying very hard to figure out,
   How we ever drifted so very far apart.

   We both found other things to do,
   Not anything either of us really did.
   Our feelings for one another,
   Was one thing that we never hid.

   Both called to do a different life,
   Never knew the final time out the door.
   Time romanced the feelings we had inside,
   The days have passed, there won't be anymore.

   As day turns to night I feel very alone,
   Your love I miss each passing day.
   The sweet memories that I hold still,
   Didn't count on missing you this way.

   I have been trying oh so very hard,
   To try and hide all of this pain.
   Tears flow freely from my eyes,
   Just like that flower in the rain.


                                        -- Terry A. Long

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   Spring Poem XXVI
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   It will be springtime again
      my friend
   Where we walk barefoot in the mornings
      and evening dew spatters against the tops
      of our feet when the blades of grass
      crush as shag carpet under our toes.
   Where we play carelessly in the drenching rain
      and dreams which we had as school children
      race back to our memories from the smell
      of springs which have passed before.
   There is life here I know
         just as i see tulips opening
              in the morning sunshine.

   It will be springtime again
      my friend
   Where we laugh foolishly in the long twilight
      and fellowships formed around tables
      of ale renew again until there are no longer
      strange voices piercing a still darkness.
   Where we float without inhibitions above humanity
      and close our minds to the stark wintertimes
      which before hath chilled our flesh white
      of days searching vainly for living roots.
   There is life here I know
         just as i hear lovers giggling
              under the canopy of stars.

   It will be springtime again
      my friend
   Where we again and again highly resolve
     to feel the raindrops upon our lips
     to hear the early morning bird song
     to exit the angers binding our mind
     to know the warmth of springs words
       that envelope our spirit by rhythms
       of passion and love.
   There is life here I know
   just as in every springtime.


                                        -- Greg Schilling

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   The Sundial
   ~~~~~~~~~~~

   Sundial is shadow
   Clouds cover the sun
   Eclipsed by storm
   Darkness at midday.

   Markers obscured
   No hope of direction
   Raindrops splash the circle
   Time stands still

   Crevasses fill
   Gusts bring a leaf
   Torn from its home
   Flounders in a pool.

   Slow abatement
   Darkness still reigns
   Breezes blow
   The leaf just spins.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings

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   Sight
   ~~~~~

   Show me music
   Let me feel the scent of a flower
   Open my ears to the cold of a
   Rushing mountain stream
   Let me taste the silence of dawn breaking
   And smell the innocence of a new born babe.

   Can you see into another's soul
   Feel their pain or taste their rage
   Smell their fear or hear their joy
   Open your heart to the music
   Open your mind to the possibilities.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings

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   The Room
   ~~~~~~~~

   A room to call your own
   No one to insist on their own way
   A space to be yourself
   No one to complain if you sit and play.

   Alone, but not lonely
   No one to make you set a pace
   Quiet, peace, time to think
   No one in the morning to race.

   Wall to decorate as you please
   No one to raz about food that smokes
   Music you can play, loud or soft
   No one to fight for the remote.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings

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   Unfinished
   ~~~~~~~~~~

   Shadows sing
   Reminders of innocence lost
   Notes of time
   Ancient as the first man.

   Unearthly wind whistles
   A melody of expectations
   Dry as the desert
   Rich as spring-time soil.

   An eagle screams
   Far above in my ear
   Feathers brush my cheek
   Wings beat the air.

   A wolf sings to the moon
   A chorus joins the chant
   Owls supply counterpoint
   Crickets add percussion.

   Music twines with spirit
   Stirring the soul
   Soaring with the flute
   Pulsing with the tom.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings

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   Spider's Joke
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Trees flocked with angel hair webs
   Decked out year-round for the faire
   Morn brings dew sparkle-diamond bright
   Ev'n brings firefly twinkle lights.

   Spiders spin wonder webs
   Lacy corner cornices
   Gossamer threads intrigue
   Beautiful--deadly.

   Unseen strands catch humans
   Unawares--oblivious
   Left to swipe, claw, flail...
   Spider's practical joke.


                                        -- Marilyn Hutchings

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   LIFE'S LITTLE SYM-PHONY
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          "Sometimes life just won't stop kicking your ribs until
          you scream out a little forgiveness"
                                        -- FROG


   My parents just keep ragin'
   They don't know I'm losin' my mind
   Over their yellin'
   And cryin' in the nighttime
   'Cause no one understands

   My friends are all leavin'
   And I'm thinkin' of movin'
   On downtown to the cemetery
   Where I belong

   But I can't seem to get down
   From the cross the world has put me on
   I feel just like a pawn
   In a chess game played by my life and God

   I'm lost in a nightmare
   And I may not ever make it through
   So if you don't see me tomorrow
   Then put away your sorrow
   'Cause the world has got my number
   And I can't wait to leave

   The world's fist keeps crushin'
   And my heart it is a rushin'
   'Cause the girls just don't come around no more

   And the crowd they're just lemmings
   That don't see their fate
   And I just don't see what they are doing here anymore

   And the bitch that we call hope
   Is nothing but a glimmer in a pool of insanity
   That is lost in this world with me
   And I stare at it from my cross and see
   The life which I have made for me

   "I made my bed I'll lie in it
    I made my bed I'll die in it"


                                        -- Joe Hope

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   HOME IS WHERE THE HELL IS
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   It's like a recurring nightmare
   In a blackened useless sky
   It's danger in a bucket
   And fish about to fry
   It's fear and it's around us
   It's unshaking hand so cold
   I wish that I could leave this place
   It's lines are getting old
   But home is where the heart is
   Bleeding on the floor
   It's scarred and chewed up body
   Is too much for me
   Let me out


                                        -- Joe Hope

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   CLAY TOMB REVISITED AGAIN AND AGAIN....
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   This wall of clay surrounding me
   In this tomb I call life
   Is crumbling too slowly
   As I hack away
   Hack away
   at the dullness of it's contours
   I hate this fucking tomb
   This womb without a view
   This crazy tortured living space
   Is icy to the touch
   But I made it for myself
   To block all the pain out
   And I have to face this wall all alone
   No one wants to help
   So I'm out here by myself
   Just scratching
   One man
   One wall
   One mind
   One fall
   I may not be able to withstand this life for long


                                        -- Joe Hope

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   Poem Of Hope....
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

   With the sweeping of your hand, love was unleashed.
   With the snapping of your finger, the bondage of sin was breached.
   You humbled yourself to the sinful way of man.
   You are my Heavenly Father, the Great I Am.
   O' Father, I see death in the streets as little children subject
   themselves to drugs.
   They follow a narrow path that has no light.
   Yet Father, you are the light.  You are the hope.
   A hope they have not seen, someone whom is considered unclean.
   Father, who is above, these children who have no hope.
   They know no love.
   Yet Father, your name means love.
   If only they would turn towards you, the savior from above.
   Your hand is outstretched, arms open wide.
   Waiting for a child to offer you inside.


                                        -- Graham Parker

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   Target practice
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Moving metaphors, prancing targets


   Straight, the arrow, cast
   Deep, the penetration of a paper shell
   and beyond.

   Into the substance behind: straw.

   "Ah!" cried the target, breached.
   "Ah ha!" crowed the arrow, target reached.

   "Now what?" asked the target.

   "What?" surprised, the arrow asked.

   Paper shell came loose from the straw,
   wrapped around the arrow's shaft, and clung.

   "What did you want?" target queried.

   "To hit the bull's eye. To score a point.
   To fulfill my destiny, my design, to validate
   my maker's wish."

   "Wrong," said the target.  Paper shell regained
   it's configuration, flattened itself against the
   straw backing.

   The arrow fell to the ground, spent.

   "Wrong," said the target.  The bull's eye looked on as the archer
   retrieved the arrow. It winked.

   Back at the line, Orion spoke to Artemis. "Something strange
   about that target."

   "What target?"


                                        -- Gay Bost

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   Pensive Antiquity
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   My thoughts revert to paths once chosen
   And to the others left behind
   Decisions from which my past was woven
   Their effects on what my future may find
   Retrospect brings forth sentiment
   With antiquity I'm entranced
   Stale pain causes me to lament
   Residence within my past
   Self blame, a search for answers
   A quest without an end
   Extinguish now these smoldering embers
   And me from my misery send.


                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy, 3-6-92

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   A Poem
   ~~~~~~

   Taut curtains parted by winds from the past
   Memories distorted, like dreams through antique glass
   Slow-motion scenarios reenacted through the fog
   Myopic uncertainties and muffled dialogue
   Time spins at an angle, eternity-ellipse
   Inconsistent patterns spell confusion in the mist
   Faded relics change and fill the mind with tales...
   Age becomes the thief of clarity, accuracy pales...


                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy

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   Inside
   ~~~~~~

   Floating, drifting, bobbing ashore
   A vigorous mountain stream
   Swirling, dipping, rising once more
   Carried off to the realm of dreams
   Bright black mist shines from below
   As amber foliage hums with life
   Who amongst the weary bestow
   Silence-- a world of strife
   Cliffs suspended, water down
   Absence hears its soothing sound
   A sudden break, and ne'er bound
   A journey of mind, in thoughts...drowned
   Depth can never be denied
   Escape, regression--atrophied
   A turning point with no return
   The flame of wisdom often burns
   Outer world abandoned thus
   Existence now within the hush.


                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy, 8-1-94

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   Logos, command and poetry
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

       The conflicts between language as command and language as poetry:
   relevant to the question of why the use of language in different ways,
   both by poets and non-poets, to express ideas and communicate experience
   and meaning, that relates to worldviews and beliefs that differ from that
   of the Xtian tradition is sometimes the victim of coercion.  The coercive
   use of twisted meanings against what the Xtian considers right meanings,
   sometimes apparent as puns, among some considered legitimated by their
   own argument that such non-Xtian meanings are twisted meanings, so it is
   permissible to twist those every which way that they are able.

       In fact, in extreme instances, including Xtian use of
   neuro-linguistic programming (brain washing), such twistings are applied
   to every meaning expressed by thought, meant to torturously convince that
   the victim has not found THE WORD, the absolute Idea in the Mind, the
   Idea of God, the commanding Father figure, and so must be shown the error
   of his or her thinking and expressing.  Of course, the differing is
   absolute, because it is not the individual's own words that are asked
   for, but instead it is God's scriptural Words, the Jesus story, that is
   demanded.  Everything else is twisted, other than that testimonial.  The
   victim is commanded to find The Word, sometimes in the "book of life", in
   their own mind-brain.  Every other expression is considered darkness,
   while that Word, is considered to be the light.  The threat of keeping
   the victim in darkness until the victim finds that light, involving
   ostracism, shunning, exclusionism of various kinds, and/or a flood of
   rumours and misleading information is commonplace.  Some become terrified
   by that kind of coercive religio-ideological terrorism, partly because it
   seems to be super-natural in its overwhelming power against the
   individual.

       Creativity, anything expressed from oneself, rather a refrain of the
   Word, echoed instead of anything different, is considered as being from
   the Devil ( d'evil, or de - vile, which once was understood as the
   cacophony of noise from the villagers gathered together, with all their
   disagreements with one another, and from that the idea of bedeviling
   someone).  Creativity, including poetics, is (by extremists) considered
   to be twisted thinking, and is countered by psycho-linguistic twisting
   sometimes in the guise of "logos-therapy" (which it usually is not).

   -----------

       I shall relate that, somewhat loosely to the question of poetics.
   Logic and logos, because both those patterns of thinking, in their
   traditional program mode and strictest definitions remain worse than
   inadequate.  My purpose is to go beyond the constraints of traditional
   archaisms, and eye of the needle narrowness of meanings.  That is where
   poetry often falls into unintentional conflict, and becomes accused of
   being a twisted system as opposed to the straight and narrow of the
   Logos, the Word absolute, the logical reasoning of the "great nobodaddy"
   Father above whose commands are short declarative phrases that are echoed
   as orders to the troops.  Sometimes the people, or the mass.

       The unknown stratagems that result in those commands to be followed
   (language as commanding), are those of the "great nobodaddy" commander in
   chief, who knows the plan of attack.  In Christendom command was from the
   pontiff, or from the local "lord".  The Word comes from the Lord and is
   manifest as the words that command come from the political leaders, the
   lords (who order).  That too often results in blind following of words as
   commands, by the many.  Sometimes wherever language is heard.  The people
   sometimes acting as though they are a herd.

       Poetry is full of ambiguities, stretching ordinary meanings, lacking
   that simplicity of usage, and becoming something dangerous because it
   questions traditional usage, and traditional lines and defies structure.

       It does so in terms of the poetry itself and in terms of subject
   matter.  It is, in a very real sense, subversive to Word as command.
   Know any anti-war poets ?  Know any pagan poets ?  Know any rock and roll
   poets?  That is one instance of going against Word as command.  It is
   disorder, not as chaos, but because it goes against the established
   order.  It differs against an established ideology - system of ideas and
   the determinations within that system of who is allowed to express what
   and how they are to express that.

       Poetry claims to communicate, to reflect, something of importance
   about the world, and so goes unintentionally head against head with
   scripture where the latter claims to clearly reveal all that is true
   about natures and the world.  It also goes head against head with the
   Neo-Platonistic Idealism pervasive in Xtian religiosity in its anti-flesh
   and anti- worldliness, where heaven and God are Ideas, absolutes, in the
   Mind-Soul and the logos of that logic bound ideology that strives to be
   predominant and determining in a totalistic way.  Poetry is sensualism.
   It is sensations and perceptions as opposed to ideas in the head.  Poetry
   strives for a different balance between mind, heart (emotion), and the
   flesh (of persons as well as that of the world) where all three planes as
   well as the astral, higher and lower planes, have their place, without
   demeaning and exclusion.  Poetry has a different connectedness with all
   of that, and at best is more inclusively eclectic than the narrowness of
   the scripture to which it is sometimes unfavourably compared,......


                                        -- Bob Ezergailis


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   ║    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 ║
   ╚═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝

       Come one, come all! Welcome to 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.

       Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
       an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and
       speculated history & publishing.  In all of the ten conferences,
       anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.
       For that is what CentNet is here for: for you.  Ever wonder how
       to accent a poem at the right meter?  Well, come join our
       PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.
       Have any problems in deciphering your dreams?  Select The Dreams
       echo, and you're questions shall be solved.

       The Network was created on May 16, 1993.  I created this 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 Bulletin Board Systems.

       I 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 download the whole network, 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.

       If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call
       at [phone], and join one of our conferences.  You'll
       not be disappointed!   Or, check out the latest info packet
       being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE].


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            █Cent ██   █ █ █   █     █   █████ ██   █   █ ██
            █ Net █    █ █ █   █     █   █     █    █   █ █
            █████ ████ █  ██   █   █████ █     ████ ████  ████

          ──────── A Professional Mailing NetWork ────────

                              - A  or   -

             Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network!

             Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a
       very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the
       sharing and distribution of poetic material.  It was our
       feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in
       life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be
       censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which
       someone did not like.

            When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY.
       But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all
       also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share.  Immediately
       a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease
       the needs and interests of the several members who helped place
       this on the map.  All in all, we find that we are a group of
       dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of
       writing.

             And what does Centipede stand for?  The body of the
       Centipede is made up of the Sysops who carry CentNet.  These
       Sysops have a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM ( BBS ) which dedicates
       itself to carious uses depending on each individual user.  There
       are many types of BBS's and some of them are specially dedicated
       to electronic mailing of messages.  For this purpose several
       NETWORKS have been created.  Centipede is one of these.  These
       Sysops, which means they are Systems Operators, when joining a
       larger system, become known as NODES.  And without the hard work
       of many of these Sysops, CentNet and any other network would not
       be able to flourish properly.  The legs are the Users, without
       the users the Sysops could not move anywhere.  Without the body,
       the Users could not interact with one another.

            Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users
       in case there may be questions or problems.  A 24 hour Voice
       Support Line is here for your questions: [phone].  If per
       chance there is no one there to answer your call, please leave
       your name and voice phone number, and the best possible time to
       contact you (Eastern Standard Time), and someone will get back
       to you as soon as possible.  We are here to help you, please
       feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello".

             CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would
       like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are
       about.  You may give us a call at the number mentioned above,
       and we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us.


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  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 by KJ Gerken

  The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:
  No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from
  there.

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
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            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ 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
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

                And coming soon:

            THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
            THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
            INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena

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    All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each, and may be ordered from:

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  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:  $2.50  an
  issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),
  operating  system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for
  delivery.

  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participation BBS. Revisions, though,
  holds the official version of Ygdrasil.

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