




 July 1995  Volume 3, Number 7 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy                        
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                     : Pedro Sena                           
                                     : Gay Bost                             
                      European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch           
                 Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla                         
                                     : Evan Light                           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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   INTRODUCTION.........................................Gay Bost

   The Sour Sweetness of Tobacco........................Ron Tisdale
   Gifts?...............................................Ron Tisdale
   Expatriote...........................................Ron Tisdale
   Untitled.............................................Ron Tisdale
   THE CABIN............................................Bill Shultz
   THE WIND.............................................Bill Shultz
   THE NIGHT............................................Bill Shultz
   Apprentice to Deception..............................Jennifer Mulcahy
   Angel................................................Alvin Brinson
   Sun & Moon...........................................Alvin Brinson
   The Midnite Sun......................................Alvin Brinson
   Climactic Catch......................................Andrew Blevins
   Rush To Rush (Ode to Rush Limbaugh)..................Terry Long
   i expected it sooner.................................Igal Koshevoy
   Disengaged...........................................Kathy J. Kramer
   She's Not A Little Girl Anymore!.....................Kathy J. Kramer
   Twinkle Toes.........................................Kathy J. Kramer
   Liberation...........................................Kathy J. Kramer
   Like *Gone,* Baby....................................Kathy J. Kramer
   Gnosis...............................................Judas Leiken  
   "I went down into the garden of nuts...."............Gay Bost

   POST SCRIPTUM
      Innocence Lost (Oklahoma City)....................Terry Long



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

    Wild One Within
    ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~
 
    Caratan was the wind. She was the rain. She was the sound of far off
    thunder...and I was the wild within. For most days in time she was a
    woman and led a woman's life. Children, hearth, gathering, preparing
    what was brought in from the hunt. There was no difference between her
    and I, none that could be seen, though the wise eyes would turn and
    focus, an inner knowing, a recognition of...something.
 
    When storms would roll across the land she would become restless,
    pacing back and forth. Sitting, suddenly, upon the ground, her legs
    crossed before her and her hands placed flat against the earth. She
    would lean forward with her elbows bent and close her eyes, her face
    upturned unto the skies. She had done this since childhood, done this
    despite the staring eyes and shaking heads, done this regardless of her
    mate's tendency to ridicule, done this beneath her children's
    questioning gaze.
 
    "The storms make her daft," her mate would explain, as if everyone
    hadn't seen this a thousand times. He would shake his head and walk
    away from her, take shelter in their hut and grudgingly prepare the
    children's meal or tend to their needs.
 
    I saw a time when Caratan turned and looked over her shoulder at him,
    her eyes as gray as the skies, her lips curving down and her heart cold
    within her. Her eyes closed, again, and she leaned forward, bent low
    between her knees and kissed the ground, coming away with dust upon her
    lips. She spit, then, into the soil before her and rose, gathered her
    skirts about her, gathered up what she had been carrying and we walked
    into the tall grass, she and I.
 
    Her fingers stroked the wild grass seeds as they waved heavily to and
    fro atop their long stems. She closed her eyes and stood, face into the
    wind. A deep breath filled her lungs and was expelled. The wind rose
    and the rain began.
 
    We walked further into the far fields, across the land, down into
    arroyos and climbed the heights, Caratan and I, until our feet were
    weary and our legs hurt. Far past the gathering, far past the near
    hunt, until we turned and looked back along our trail. There was no
    village, no hut, no mate, no children...there were no heads to shake,
    nor excuses to make.
 
    It was then Caratan smiled. A great bird flew overhead, wings spread
    wide upon the high currents. Her eyes followed its direction, stayed
    with it until it disappeared into a far line of trees. It was that way
    we went, over damp earth and through bright grasses. toward the trees.
 
    I don't know how far we walked. The storm held back and only gave up
    gentle waters, warm in the late spring day. Gray became darker day and
    finally the black of clouded night was upon us, the tree line close
    enough to scent the forest floor. Caratan led. I followed.
 
    We slept the wet night beneath the eaves of the wood and I dreamt of
    the man and the children, dreamt their worried faces, dreamt him
    shaking his head and telling his nearest neighbor that Caratan had
    finally taken all he had and left him helpless. I didn't tell Caratan
    the dream. I didn't want to see her gray eyes or the coldness of her
    heart.
 
    Storm still promised at the dawning, damp beyond the shelter, damp
    within. The winds had risen, driving the rainfall at a slant away from
    the wood, giving some dry space on the edge. It was here that Caratan
    built her fire in the wind. I gathered the stones and laid the
    kindling, built as she decreed, cleared the grass away with my bare
    hands, pulling it up with root bound soil still attached.
 
    "Now will we burn the spaces between," she said, her voice low and
    harsh.
 
    In my heart I saw the small creatures of the grass lands flee, their
    homes destroyed, their fur singed..and the dead. I saw the nests go up
    in sudden flames and saw the eggs scorched and cracked. I saw a line of
    raging fire walking toward the children and I stayed her hand.
 
    She held me in thrall for moments and felt within my soul, probing
    fingers of ice and fire going deep. It was then she chuckled. "You are
    not so useless after all," was what she said, releasing me. She
    gathered up her skirts and ripped long tears going round and round
    until her legs were bare and she'd a length of cloth three times our
    height. One end she tied to my right wrist. The other to her left. "Now
    we are bound." There was some finality to her words that chilled me to
    the marrow of my bone.
 
    "And coming away with you to this place wasn't binding enough?" I
    asked, my voice soft.
 
    "It was," she answered and wrapped the strip of cloth around her wrist
    many times until she had used up half the length in doing so. "Now
    you," she said, indicating I should repeat her actions from my end.
 
    I thought of the mother, so long gone, her soft hands gentle on my
    brow. I thought of the day she had died and we had come into the
    village, Caratan and I, walking as children bound by fate. I thought of
    the grandmother who had taken us in and called us her own. I thought of
    the teachers who had taken us under their wing and made of us what we
    were. I thought of the man and the children, their faces now turned
    inward to the hearth. I thought of the long days and cold nights that
    would be our only solace in this wood. "No fire?" I asked.
 
    "No fire," she answered.
 
    I wrapped the strip of cloth around my wrist many times until I had
    used up half the length in doing so. We were, now, one hand, joined by
    the tattered cloth, Caratan and I.
 
    So did we walk through the wood, two as one, Caratan: the wind and rain
    and sound of far off thunder and I: the wild within.
 
    ----
 
    Today we are one as we were then, as we have always been and always
    will be.
 
    For most days in time I am a woman and lead a woman's life. I tend the
    hearth and children, join in the gathering and prepare the meat brought
    in from the hunt.
 
    They call me Caratan'n and hold me as their own. I sit before the fire
    and tell the tales when the quiet times demand. I sing in the morning
    with the birds and when the storm comes I walk restless upon the land.
    My mate smiles fondly upon me, then, and puts his arms around me in
    love. He tends to the children's needs and tells them that I am a
    goddess come from the wood.



                                        -- Gay Bost





   The Sour Sweetness of Tobacco
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   clinging
   to your fingers

   no matter how many times
   you soap your hands in
   ritual lather

   you cannot erase
   those brown stains
   of a life marked by choices:

   What color
   will my next lover be

   What space
   will we inhabit

   Whether dreaming
   to carry his lust to term

   or to consciously abort.

   Now
   only in the course of a dream
   or a dreamt of visit

   in phone calls and letters we chart
   each others progress through foreign places.

   Our litany of being:

   We are stretched across a cable under the ocean
   voices pressured, muted, stressed

   by the slow weighted water poured
   in a basin.

   You
   are the ghost at the other end of the cable

   your voice
   a fist closed
   on my heart.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



                               Gifts?
                               ~~~~~

                                 I

                        What can I give you?

                      The sign a deaf poetess
                         makes for a swan?

                              And what
                            can I bring?

                        A brass pipe shared
                       by brothers in a land
                             of dreams?

                      Is there no contentment
                   in the arrival of empty hands?

                                 II

                         My father's hands
                          were always full

                      once, with ripe peaches
                          freshly picked.

                             Now, empty
                     they carry all my sustenance

                     for a life time of longing
                      for an uncommon journey.

                                III

                      If I bring you a flower
                           for your first
                         and only daughter
                       will I buy your love?

                        And will love bought
                              sustain?

                                 IV

                             Here it is
                             all I have

                             just this:

                             warm flesh
                          a beating heart.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Expatriote
   ~~~~~~~~~~

   Guilt is born
   out of a taste for flesh

   the methods of slaughtering veal
   (young bulls fattened on milk
   feet permanently off the ground,
   sky-laden with death)

   like the distance within
   from your home.

   The yellow-striped distance
   of a two-laned highway
   stretched across the bush
   remembered from some time
   spent elsewhere.

   An elsewhere where bulls
   and most people
   keep their feet firmly
   on the ground.

   Home that seem so distant,
   almost as if you've never been there
   and still you know you haven't left.
   (vacations in foreign countries don't count,

   neither does the number of Japanese,
   Spanish or African lovers you've
   split the darkness with).

   II

   I think I remember most
   the preoccupation with other things;

   the smell of pipe smoke,
   the scent of a certain breeze
   at a certain time of year,

   the feel of a cat's fur
   rubbing against your bare foot.

   The sound of exotic instruments;
   sitars, ocarinas, dulcimers,
   whispering with a somehow
   ordered passion.

   The sight of a street-light
   hanging over a dwarfed building,
   the dark shapes of trees moving behind.

   Electric moon suspended on a pole
   against a black felt sky.

   I remember most
   the constant, well-planned
   electricity
   of it all.

   The underlying tension
   of power.

   III

   The question of power;
   the ability to stand,
   to push back the weight of air,

   to maintain a distance
   between yourself and the ground,
   sharp edges, God,
   death.

   The ability of a "nation"
   to hold itself in quotes,

   to hold its Blacks,
   Chicanos and poor Whites
   in the parenthesis of a ghetto
   or a backwoods hamlet

   adorned with weeds
   and a 57 Chevy on blocks.

   The left-overs of forty acres
   and a mule per man.

   (women don't rate:
   something there about
   the "weaker" sex?).

   IV

   My parenthesis here
   consist of the educated few
   and a fellowship stipend.

   With these,
   and a poem or two,
   I manage to enclose myself,
   hold out the poverty around me
   and the politics

   (except when walking with my
   African lover at night,

   the police here take a dim view
   of the unidentifiable;
   my girlfriend and poetry
   are in that class).

   Some "chai" and fifteen minutes
   of persuasion settle them.

   Walking in the dark spaces
   of Nairobi at night
   can be a crime.

   My feet are still above the ground,
   like the veal-calf,
   sky-laden with death.

   Do gods still look down
   and occasionally
   mingle with the living?

   Usually only for a profit
   or the easing of guilt.

   The gods,
   like the dispossessed,
   cling to things. . .

   cars, houses, a piece of land

   guilt,

   a sitar, an ocarina,
   a dulcimer.

   Someone else's bread.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   Untitled
   ~~~~~~~~

   The breath within
   flesh
   gives motion.

   Surround breath
   with the flesh of trees,
   spin threads of muscle
   from the guts of the earth,

   the sound
   calls up spirits
   in the shapes of animals

   they glide into being

   just
   under the thin
   edge

   of mind.


                                        -- Ron Tisdale



   THE CABIN
   ~~~~~~~~~
   A cabin so bleak on a cold winters plain
   Curled up in a ball in a corner he's lain.
   Conscious thought faded, fled his tired head,
   An old log of wood is where he rested his head.
   But dreams kept on coming, in his now final sleep
   The thoughts of his life into dreams they did creep.
   He dreamed of a fire so warm and so bright,
   Yet, even in dreams he was left without fight.
   Soon the ending would come and the darkness enfold,
   What was left of his life in this humble abode.
   But how did he come to this time and this place,
   To lay on this filthy floor and fade away in disgrace?
   Was it life just in general, or that of his making
   That led him to now and this cold undertaking?
   The wind as a banshee just screams through the night,
   Leaving him without thought on his final flight.
   As he lay there his cloths covered with frost,
   His dreams turned to life and the things he had lost.
   Not material things that the foolish must hold,
   But things of the heart, of compassion untold.
   His dreams turned to life, to surviving this waist,
   But they were just dreams, and left him in haste.
   Then entered his dreams, a feeling so warm,
   Outside the wind blew in this raging winters storm.
   Could it still be dreams that encircled his head,
   Or was the warmth turning real, was he really not dead.
   Curled up in a ball in a corner he's lain
   But his body is tingling, it now feels pain.
   Could someone have come, lit a fire in the hearth
   Or was it's deaths way of coming with it's dark mirth.
   His cloths where now moist, the frost melted away,
   But why was it happening on this cold day?
   A stirring he heard as he lay on the floor,
   A sure sounding foot as it entered the door.
   Burdened with wood and straight for the fire,
   To build it up more, make it roar even higher.
   But who was this person, this angel of love,
   Surly with grace then and sent from above.
   The old man just stirring, his legs stretched way out.
   If he had yet the strength, he'd of got up to shout.
   Yet thankfulness engulfed him as there he lay,
   Feeling warm one more time, and with nothing to say.
   Yet the thoughts in his head were confusing as best.
   Who had now come to answer his final prayers request?


                                        -- Bill Shultz



   THE WIND
   ~~~~~~~~
   The wind howls across the frigid snow crested plain.
   The wind comes to you, to fill you with pain.
   It will seep into your body, it finds it's own way,
   Bringing with it a chill, a chill that will stay.
   Turn your back to the wind, go find yourself cover.
   Turn away from it's sharpness, as around you it hovers.
   Your feet crunch along through the crust of the snow.
   Leave the wind at you back and away form it go.
   Ahhh, the safety of a cabin lay here on our way
   But alas, no smoke from the chimney on so cold a day.
   I knock on the door, comes no sound from within.
   As the wind rushes stronger, with a hell of a din.
   As I push on the door it creaks open with a sigh.
   Yet the scene from within isn't nice to the eye.
   The cabin is dark;  dank and moist from the cold
   But enter I do, though I'm not really bold.
   The furniture here is all raged and torn
   The cabin is old, the interior well worn.
   A fire's what I need in the hearth by the wall.
   So I gather some wood, stack it up real tall.
   But alas, as I look, my matches are wet,
   No fire for me now, the cold is here with me yet.
   I've grown very weary on my quest to find heat,
   I'm so tired now I find I can't stay on my feet.
   I curl up in a ball, in a corner to find
   The sleep of the endless, let its coming be kind.
   For my journey has ended, I can't go anymore,
   As I drop to my knees and curl up on the floor.
   But what is that I hear, is that a crunch in the snow?
   Has someone come by, will the heat in here flow?
   Yet the door hasn't moved, no one enters this day.
   My parting thoughts have now ended as I now drift away.
   The wind through the cracks of the cabin does blow,
   It howls in it's sorrow, and away it does go.......


                                        -- Bill Shultz



   THE NIGHT
   ~~~~~~~~~
   It is a cold, dark, ugly night
   Nothing can penetrate the black.
   Cold drizzle soaks through my cloths,
   As I wait for the final attack.
   I shiver as I lay here
   Covered with muck and mud.
   Dreaming I was somewhere else,
   Somewhere out of this crud.
   Our numbers, they are much to few
   But we'll hold them as long as we can.
   No, I don't want to be someplace else
   We have to hold this piece of land.
   A flare goes up, it lights the sky,
   We know the time has come.
   Check our weapons one more time
   For the battle has begun.
   The chatter of the 60
   Up in the tower so high,
   Spiting death upon the ground
   So many now will die.
   They're at the wire, coming on
   We hit the claymore switch.
   Kill the stinking screaming devils
   Make their life a real bitch.
   But on they come, there is no stop
   As our 16's start to fire.
   Pour death upon these little men
   Don't let them through the wire.
   Then up above we hear the din
   Of an airplane in the sky.
   "Where do you want it," the pilot asks,
   I'll help you make them die.
   Smoky's here, he makes a pass
   His mini-guns cry out.
   Raining death upon the ground
   From those deadly little snouts.
   Morning breaks upon the land
   Another night gone by.
   Doing what we're paid to do,
   Making other people die.
   The bodies scattered on the ground
   All covered with blood and gore.
   And friends I knew not long ago,
   Have knocked on heavens door.
   It didn't take to long this night
   To make the devils scatter.
   Moping up is all that's left
   Does any of this matter?
   For tomorrow we must leave this place
   Just give it all right back.
   But no matter where we are tonight
   We'll wait for another attack.


                                        -- Bill Shultz



   Apprentice to Deception
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   An Apprentice to Deception
   By the Learning of the Loom
   Weaving patterns out of pictures,
   Out of treacherous perfume

   The Pretense of a Pretender
   With his eyes of sugared glass
   Uses venomous charisma
   Dissect target, capture fast-

   Enemy to Intuition
   Muffling its warning cries
   With a dance of cold seduction
   Promised Love that buries Lies..


                                        -- Jennifer Mulcahy



   Angel,
   ~~~~~
   A year has passed or more,
   Since your tale I learned,
   And I was concerned.

   Not knowing why I did,
   I told you my secret,
   That I did not regret.

   You knew it had hurt me,
   that dark secret I told,
   Not a word you sold.

   A Bard has a dream,
   a story to share the pain,
   and in history remain.

   Many things have changed,
   For me as well as you,
   And now I can see anew.

   A Bard has a nightmare,
   A story he knows too well,
   and he cannot tell.


                                        -- Alvin Brinson



   Sun & Moon
   ~~~~~~~~~~
   sun and moon
   dark and light
   this is our love

   you and me
   on the shore
   strange pair to see

   yet look now
   where are you
   i  can not see

   who is he
   do you know
   it kills me now

   you with him
   dark and light
   we are no more

   sun and moon
   dark and light
   this was our love

   sun and moon.....

                                        -- Alvin Brinson



   The Midnite Sun
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Thou art the Dark Angel,
   thy curse bestowed on thee
   by thy nature need not be
   thy end.

   Thou wishest a bard to be,
   I say thou art, for thy tales
   are yet strong and true,
   and showeth thy heart.

   For thy curse stops thee not,
   thou knowest thyself; yet
   thou admits not: thou art
   thyself a bard.

   For thy curse for all its pain
   has given thee the power and reign
   over any bard like me,
   Lady, canst this thou not see?

   Beside thine, my lady,
   all my tales of light
   dim by thy tales spun
   by thee, the Midnite Sun.

                                        -- Alvin Brinson



   Climactic Catch
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   As if it comes
   and as it will
   and always does
   it's that a man
   that drowns
   in the bluest blue
   sees the bloom-
   like push-up
   sooner and soon
   we are as he
   and the moment
   is softly yon.

                                        -- V.A. Blevins



                   Rush To Rush
              (Ode to Rush Limbaugh)
              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   The rotund undisputed king of the radiowaves,
   Rush Limbaugh and his merry court of ditto heads.
   A man and his followers Liberals have come to hate,
   Someone those on the left fear and the feminazi dreads.

   This undeniable talent that is on loan from God,
   His ideals and views that many of us also hold dear.
   Rush has found the truth through the psycho babble,
   America, the way it ought to be, has Democrats in fear.

   The liberal press and their bias slant on the news,
   Aren't able to get away with it with Rush around.
   Their efforts thwarted and their views being exposed,
   All of them just come crashing down to the ground.

   Updates on feminists, animal rights, and Democrats,
   Keeps us all informed as what they are up to now.
   They are over, but they just don't know it yet,
   The left just doesn't seem it get it somehow.

   Dean for the Institute for Advanced Conservative studies,
   Professor Limbaugh teaches values of the American way.
   His uncanny ability to expose the lies and tell the truth,
   Helps the millions who hear, make through yet another day.

   Rush Limbaugh is by far the most feared man in America,
   His highest regard for the military is easy to see.
   For I admit that I too am a mind numb robot ditto head,
   And I do thank God that Rush Limbaugh is on the E.I.B.

                                        -- Terry A. Long



   i expected it sooner
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   it's okay,
   i've been here before.

   the din of the fan.
   a whine of the fluorescent light.

   the wind is blowing,
   through my little piece of desolation.

   it's cold, or it feels like it -
   i really don't know.

   if i close my eyes,
   i can't hear a thing ... not a thing
   beyond the fan and the flickering lights.

   it's dark in here, or so it feels -
   not really sure anymore.

   cracking open my eyes, and there's still nothing to see.
   guess i've been building sandcastles in the surf too long.

   and the lights stare back,
   and the fan's din,
   and the blast of the air.
   
   and everything has a purpose,
   and i know that too well,
   and ...
  
   and there's still nothing here,
   and there never was.

   it's okay,
   i've lived here before.
   

                                               -Igal Koshevoy (M^TR)
                                                July 5, 1995; 12:48a



   Disengaged
   ~~~~~~~~~~
   I wasn't allowed to live with "Larry"
   in the apartment above the Mambo Club
   until we got married.  But it didn't seem polite
   to ask when that would be:
   mother said *never pressure a man.*

   He wanted me to wear pretty things
   and dance for the customers,
   show them what I was made of.

   He bought me costumes and thought it was precious
   that I refused to wear them.  I "modeled" one,
   the least I could do, and he started tearing
   strips of masking tape with his teeth.  He stuck
   red balloons on my chilly polka-dot bikini and tummy.
   The customers could bust a balloon for a buck.

   He had to bloody my nose that first night.
   I stared at the spotlight like it was God.
   Like it hated me.  Did my routines
   on the stage and then on the floor, dancing
   through lit cigarettes jabbing
   at my balloons, white explosions stinging
   my eyes, arms over head, spinning,
   trying to smile, men laughing about popping
   my cherry.  I thought they meant balloons,
   something plural.

   When they were all were busted,
   I ran in my room, tore the shrunken
   rubber off me and tried to change
   but my blouse stuck to me,
   everything stuck to me.

   All I could think was *no more*
   but never made it past the kitchen.
   He said he didn't like to hit me
   but it sure felt like he did.

   I laid my hand inside the mark
   his had left on my cheek.
   My palm cooled, absorbed
   the rough red swell of his heat.

   Then came flowers and milk
   and soft kisses and tickles.
   Lipstick and chocolate
   and ribbons of lies.

   Desperation has no memory.


                                        -- Kathy J. Kramer



   She's Not A Little Girl Anymore!
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   My crying was no good for business,
   so Larry, my "fiancee" and boss,
   let me wear a leotard instead of a bikini
   under red balloons I wore for his customers
   to bust with lit cigarettes while I danced.

   One night some guy got real ugly
   after he paid and popped
   his way to my skin and found the leotard
   instead, so he bent me over a table.

   When Larry tried to get him off me,
   I felt a slivery edge against my neck
   *back off or I'll cut her*
   and everything got real quiet

   except for the sound of my leotard
   being cut.  When I heard his zipper
   ripping open, I was grateful
   that he was behind me.

   There was this thump and squishing,
   like a truck tire on a kitty's belly 
   only the driver keeps going, reverse
   forward reverse forward
   reverse.

   I remember sitting on the cold plastic seat
   of a squad car drinking my first cup of coffee.
   I felt the restless itch of blood drying
   as police drove me to the hospital.

   They needed what was left of my costume
   and wanted pictures of my front,
   with the hospital gown open, for evidence.
   I only let them photograph my black eye
   from when my cheek cracked on the table.
   They said it wouldn't be enough and left.

   As the doctor snapped on rubber gloves,
   his eyes never stopped questioning me.
   He smiled, *Did he come inside you?*
   "I think so, well, I mean, he was."
   He threw his head back in a laugh
   that exposed every filling in his teeth,
   *You don't even know what I'm talking about.*

   How could he think I didn't know?
   And he fingered my sores, hard,
   asking if they hurt.

   He patted my head and pushed me back
   on the examining table's crinkly wax paper
   I confused with my skin.  Bones broke
   when he separated my knees.

   I felt hot light and a breeze as he whistled,
   his slippery blue-white fingers
   hurting me all over
   again.  I kept thinking
   *it can't last forever*

   Larry couldn't marry me knowing his friends saw what happened.
   And no judge would convict the guy
   considering what I looked like
   and what I was doing with it.
   Larry was real nice, said *that's a girl*
   when I smiled, told me to relax
   and work in the kitchen.

   Mother's letter said work hard and don't worry,
   men marry all kinds these days.
   She sent money in case I was with child,
   said *you're as grown as a woman gets.*


                                        -- Kathy J. Kramer



   Twinkle Toes
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~
   I was washing dishes one slow night,
   watching the thin skin of soap bubbles pop
   and lose their color to the air.
   As a truck drove by the window,
   I looked up into high beams
   and thought of a new name:  *Mazzie Starr.*

   *Mazzie Starr* was too glamorous
   to be pushed around.  I'd claw and crawl
   my way to the top, be independent.
   No one would be able to touch me.

   As soon as I found out I wasn't pregnant
   from when that guy got mad at me,
   I took the money my mom sent
   to Linette Lovejoy's Studio of the Dance.

   Mom's letter said "it" happened to her
   and a lot of other girls.  Forget about it or it
   would keep happening 
   men could smell it on you.

   But Mazzie Starr would dazzle them,
   show them I wasn't just some stinkin'
   broad.  People would come
   to see the fancy steps I learned
   while dancing on bright yellow mats
   covered with a man's footprints.
   In the movies, no one danced without
   a crowd of couples clapping.

   I had no idea how far away Hollywood was.
   My audience was the same old men with soggy
   chunks of cigar on their lips grinning
   while the young ones hollered *take it off   take it off.*
   I did my "Happy Talk" number and they laughed.

   *Where were the tap-dancing
   sailors who won wars
   and knocked on doors
   while hiding flowers
   behind their backs?*

   The worse things get,
   the fewer questions
   you ask.

   Chin up, toes pointed,
   shuffle ball change
   and a cha cha cha.


                                        -- Kathy J. Kramer



   Liberation
   ~~~~~~~~~~
   Larry lost The Mambo Club to
   Bruno, an out-of-towner
   who called me a dish.

   He had the old neon sign removed,
   put up his own 'The Piranha Lounge'.
   "The" and "Lounge" were a harmless blue
   and "Piranha" was a thick, vicious red.

   Nicki, his girlfriend, lived with him
   but they weren't even married.
   Her red hair was full of breezes like her
   hollow eyes.  Everything about her was easy 
   the way she talked, the way she sipped
   highballs, lit cigarettes, fingered
   the naked pages of Bruno's magazines.

   He told her to break me
   in while he remodeled.
   I would've given anything
   to be just like her but hated her kind
   of dancing and costumes.
   The backsides were completely
   cut out.  And when her top came off,
   white circles the size of communion wafers
   covered the tips of her breasts.

   She hula-hooped her hips, pouted her lips.
   The guys would start hollering but soon got real quiet,
   like any noise would strangle
   every remaining ounce of air
   from their hollow mouths.

   She tried showing me how to do it,
   but I couldn't forget about being half-
   naked.  My knees abandoned me.  I smiled
   like a ballerina with blistered
   lips and missing teeth.

   She said "I felt just like you did at first"
   and could tell I didn't believe her.
   She slammed her drink down,
   told me to grow the fuck up,
   "they ain't coming to watch you *dance*, you know?"
   Up at Bruno's apartment, she made me
   my first pitcher of Harvey Wallbangers
   and showed some adult movies she starred in.
   I felt like an idiot for being so embarrassed.
   If she could do that, I could be a go-go dancer.

   She said you get used to it.
   I'd been at the bar long enough
   to figure she was probably right.

   Her and Bruno went in the bedroom.
   When I heard her screaming more
   I hurried downstairs into the Sunday
   night silence of the empty bar.

   Alone, I loved being fucked-up,
   being fed-up and glad, so full
   of shit that nothing mattered 

   *free.*

   I wanted music
   so loud I couldn't hear
   inside my head.  Like Nicki said,
   if you can't beat it, fuck it.
   How could relief be wrong?

   I walked onto the hollow stage
   and became a real woman
   like Nicki.  I slipped out of my clothes
   and into one of her G-strings covered
   with blue sequins the color of true
   blood, before it's exposed to the air.

   I pulled its stiff strap slowly inside me
   and danced like my body was a charm to tempt men
   into killing me:  an unhappy woman's final victory.

   It was easy until the bar was full,
   until I lost my shirt
   in a room full of eyes
   that tattooed my skin
   with invisible holes.

   I wanted the men to grab me so I could feel
   on the outside what I felt on the inside.

   Maybe then I would've known it was real.
   Maybe then I would've stopped.


                                        -- Kathy J. Kramer



   Like *Gone,* Baby
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Psychedelic lights swirled
   peace and love over flat-black walls
   that absorbed everything.
   America was free to be as
   ugly as she wanted.

   I did the pony and the jerk
   but nobody paid attention
   to my dancing even before I stripped.

   Sitting at a table, trying to hustle
   drinks off truckdrivers,
   I'd wrap my palms around candles
   in glass covered with white plastic netting
   that softened in the hum
   of flame absorbing air.

   When I got drunk, Bruno thought I was crazy,
   walking to each table, sniffing dirty roses
   like the Queen of Sheeba in my feather boa,
   gently bending over to enjoy them,
   getting my fanny spanked by men
   that Nicki set me up with.

   I learned why men love cars.
   They trap women in them
   and call it a date.  After a few,
   I quit fighting so it wouldn't hurt
   when I peed the next day.

   Nicki taught me about love.
   In order to love a man,
   you gotta act like a man
   which makes it impossible
   to love anyone.

   She turned tricks to buy fancy
   toilet water and said it was a shame
   that I didn't have the heart of a whore.

   I thought she meant I didn't have a heart.

   I should have known she'd be leaving,
   should have known why
   she had to keep moving:

   *Go Go Girl.*

                                        -- Kathy J. Kramer



                             Gnosis I
                             ~~~~~~

                  She is like a torn bit of skin,
                       A ripple of the light
                          On a dusty lake.

                 We were like the sun and moon, we
              Danced upside down across the floor, we
                  Broke Marriage vows together, we
                Spoke profane sentences on the altar

                    And then like a spindle cog
                We ate the bread we had desecrated,
                        Spoke the words that
                        we both so loathed.

                Wore the chains we had just removed.
               And I in my sudden missing entrapment
                  Had the nerve to wonder just why
              The lights were still on when you left.



                    Gnosis: (Incarnation II)
                    ~~~~~~

                 Intrepid!  They called at my name,
                    Unbound by the void corpses
           That rule the greater cemetery of your world.

                     And in this profane glory,
        MAN UNSEEN, we raped this world, rich in its wonder,
          And bartered for its souls in secure depravity.

                       But we are the liars,
               The festers of a wounded world choking
                On the blood of its magical elixir,
                   Fat with the excesses of this
                          Unholy despite:

                      And in my arrogance, I,
                 Sanctified this heathen communion.

                                 I,
                         Became everything
            That inspires my soul to retching bitterness
              And delivered to a monster such as you,
                     A monster such as my self,
                              My soul.

                          And in ignorant,
                           Ruined pride,
                              I wept,
                       Not for your leaving,
                        But my empty dream.



                    Gnosis: (Incarnation III)
                    ~~~~~~

                  As awakened at the last sunrise,
                   in tears of unsettled change,
                           I am unclean.

                   The world had become a theatre
                   Of my own destitute excesses,
          And you, as the queen of the self-same excesses,
             Had become a lover in the despite that I,
                         The hanging fool,
               Had given you in my sullen bitterness.

                   And in this corrupted silence,
                      This stinging awakening,
               I wonder just who I would have become.
           I wonder just how I would have spared my flesh
                    from my own demoniac nature.

                         I think it unfair,
                       I didn't think at all.


                                        -- Judas Leiken



   "I went down into the garden of nuts...."
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   There was the orchard, old and brittle the trees
   Gone wild the fruit which grew on these
   And she wept as she went, her burden heavy
   Her feet caked with mud from the dark levy.
   Lay she down weary there, heavy with birth
   There 'neath the apple tree, woman to earth.

   No legend to lead, no tradition to teach
   Woman to earth, she, without man to beseech
   Alone in the myth which time passes over
   To birth a babe, among millions, hapless rover.
   Get cherished within, more precious than gold
   The lover long gone, his heart grown cold.

   She weeps in the birthing, cries in the pain
   On the hill above Blessing the cross rises again
   In the dawning they'll come, good books held tight
   Never knowing what has passed below in the night.
   A birthing more ancient, a legend once told
   A place of succour, woman to earth, life's hold.

   She listens and looks to that which sings high
   An angel, a goddess, wings unfurled, come nigh
   Chill blossoms drift down, set free by a touch
   A coverlet of hope shed so on even one such
   Here, in the orchard, into the garden of nuts
   A child born free  from the cold stone huts.

   To the angel, to the goddess, wings spread wide
   Still bloody with birthing on her delicate hide
   Blessing's fresh born babe, hid well from new kings
   Sheltered and sung to 'neath the rainbow's wings.
   Come forth to a world where she has little worth
   Come forth from her mother, comes woman, to earth.


                                        -- Gay Bost

       'For in the days when Pharaoh cruel decree doomed infant sons to
   death, Jewish mothers would wander far into the woods, and give birth
   in stealth under the fragrant and friendly boughs of the apple trees.
   They were not alone. For the angels themselves came down to help and
   comfort those lorn ladies'.






   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸        ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸       -ps-  ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;             ; ;             ;   
  

   Innocence Lost
   (Oklahoma City)
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   
   Innocent children, mothers, and fathers,
   Victims of a tragic and cowardly act.
   Tears for the children freely flow,
   Feel lost and confused, I numbly react.
   
   Killing innocent people in the Name of God,
   What happened to; Thou Shall Not Kill?
   Why are they allowed to get away with it,
   Terrorists killing anyone they want at will.
   
   Angels welcoming all the innocent souls,
   An event that invokes deep inner thought.
   Something evil can't stand peace somehow,
   The answers become mute and naught.
   
   I really don't understand this at all,
   Just what is gained by killing anyone?
   Some fundamentalist or extreme cause,
   Children shouldn't die, but play and fun.
   
   How many more innocent lives before it's enough,
   I pray someday everyone will see the light.
   Saw the pain and devastation this brought on,
   My prayers go out to Oklahoma city tonight.
   
   (May the grace of God bless your souls. Amen)


                            -- Terry A. Long, 1995





   ͻ
       A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers    
   Ķ
        - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet   [9310]     
   Ķ
    (C) CopyRight     "I Write, Therefore, I Develop"     By Paul Lauda 
   ͼ

       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.

       Feel free to drop by and take a look at Centipede; simply dial up
       BITTER BUTTER BBS at 1-503-692-5841, enter "downloader" as the name,
       and "guest" as the password for fast access.

       If you are interested in joining Centipede, please fill out the
       following form and email it to Tom Almy at 1:105/290.

     +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
     | THE CENTIPEDE NETWORK APPLICATION FORM                              |
     +---------------------------------------------------------------------+
     | Systems Name: system's name                                         |
     | BBS Software: system software & version                             |
     | Main Board #: full public main data number                          |
     | Modem Speeds: protocol & uncompressed modem speed                   |
     | Fidonet Adrs: system's Fidonet address                              |
     | Sysop's Name: full real name                                        |
     | Sysop E-mail: sysop's email address                                 |
     | Sysop Voice#: sysop's full voice phone number                       |
     | Sysop D.O.B.: date of birth                                         |
     | Sysop Address: street address                                       |
     | Sysop Address: city/state/zip code/country                          |
     +---------------------------------------------------------------------+





                                    
                                      
                           [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ]
                                      
                                        
                                      

  

  RESOURCES

    The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on Internet through
    the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil".
    This site contains the collections as: 8-bit MS-DOS ASCII text,
    universal 7-bit ASCII, ANSI color graphics, GIF pictures, word-processor
    laid-out files and other goodies. The entire collection can also be
    accessed by FTP as "ftp://ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil". Each
    month, the Ygdrasil Magazine is posted to the Usenet newsgroup
    rec.arts.poems.

    We hope this will give readers a break from having to dial long distance
    and figure out which BBS has Ygdrasil available for them; provide a more
    intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede; and increase &
    broaden the audience & coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers.

  E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL

    Any person that can access Internet e-mail (ie. FidoNet, Prodigy, AOL)
    can access Ygdrasil's online resources. To get a E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO
    YGDRASIL GUIDE, send e-mail to the Internet address
    "listproc@www0.cern.ch" (if you don't know how to send Internet e-mail,
    please ask your system administrator for instructions). In the message,
    leave the subject line blank, and in the body enter two lines into the
    message: "www http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil/wwwmail.html" and on
    the second line "quit". The Guide will be waiting in your e-mailbox
    within a day. NOTE: CASE IS SIGNIFICANT - "www" is not the same as
    "WWW"; if you don't type it the exactly same way, your request will
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  COMMENTS

    Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
    submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
    contents:
        Internet: klaus.gerken@bbs.synapse.net

    Igal Koshevoy, Production Editor and Distribution Coordinator - for
    submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives,
    GIFs, wordprocessored files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix
    format, commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and
    access. Igal's PGP key is available on request to ensure privacy of
    transaction.
        Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com
        Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290

    We'd love to hear from you!




                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

            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

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

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

            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

  All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each. 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, also specify computer type (IBM or
  Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery.

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







  
                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  

  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, 1994 and 1995 
  by Klaus J. Gerken.

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

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
  stamped envelope, to:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             




