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+======== March 1995 =========================== Volume 3, Number 3 ========+
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| [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] |
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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 Editor: Martin Zurla |
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+===========================================================================+
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[ TABLE OF CONTENTS ]
***************************************************************************
INTRODUCTION..............................Klaus J. Gerken
World without End.........................Kathleen J. Kramer
A Rose is Forever.........................Bill Shultz
Upon the wishing well.....................Pedro Sena
SHERWOOD CONCRETE FLATS...................Igal Koshevoy
Transfer..................................Martin Zurla
The Afflicted.............................Klaus J. Gerken
POST SCRIPTUM
Five Haiku Poems......................Lawrence Thurlow
**************************************************************************
[ INTRODUCTION ]
**************************************************************************
When the visions flicker like shadows on the walls pulsating in the
vampire nights, illumined by the kindled firewood of allusive
augmentations, when the windows argue with the chilling splintered
diamond wind; when the sceptre of the ghost of history refuses to
decompose; and when the mountain refuses (as it should) to come to any
prophet, and the rain accentuates the wisdom of the (still, and ever
unknown) universe, it does not argue: argument is vain. The wind drives
nails of hail into a lost horizon. Yet a found horizon offers less or
more solution. The guru who professes to know, never has a clue, and the
cat with phosphorescent eyes abounding with the visionary's mystery only
heightens latent tensions where always have been arguments: between the
entities surrounding you, or you surrounding all these entities, which
happen to be real, or unreal as the truth of relevance supports within
the parameters of its reclusive ramblings. Each supposition is our
marker; each supposition is the grave-stone we envisage. Once we come
full circle, it is hardly worth remembering. Such is the life of any
human; any stone. Stone upon a stone. A life that is for us static and
inviolable; but for a stone, we just don't exist. Just think of how the
elements emerge and dis-emerge. How they compliment each other. They are
lovers on a plain we cannot even hope to envisage. They are shadows of
the gods we have delineated to a footnote. We think there's nothing left.
We think that *they* cannot harm us anymore. But they are still very much
alive. The cult of Christian suffering hasn't killed them all. Just
obscured a few of them - merged with some convenient others - and given
us a very convoluted and constricted view of the nature of life's
spiritual requirements.
I cannot disengage poetry from the all encompassing, the greater
spiritual: the poetry of words is the 'word' of the gods - the lesser
ones, the greater ones; the gods of ancient Sumaria, Egypt, the Greeks or
the Romans, the Hindu Gods and the Buddhist ultimate path to
enlightenment; even the Judeo-Moslem-Christian gods - and each word is as
an atom in the breath of the ever evolving entity of what we perceive as
'our' universe. Sometimes I even have the feeling that this 'word' takes
us beyond even that limitation. Poetry, whether through the gods, or
through limited human sympathy, speaks directly to us. Soul to soul,
feeling to feeling, entity to entity, understanding to understanding.
Poetry is our participation with the greater. And not only poetry, but
the whole mind of the poet/writer/artist: all different modes within the
same perception of the seer, the shaman, the mystic. The poet does not as
much explain things - that is for science - as emote the unfelt thoughts
and feelings of the great beyond, which becomes a vital extension of the
process of the evolution of our thoughts and feeling, and therefore our
societies, not only of individuals, but of communities of individuals,
and therefore a society, forever dancing in the infinite, the radiant,
brightly shining universe of hope.
This edition also welcomes Martin Zurla as Contributing Editor.
Martin is based in the L.A. region and is the 'Founder and former
Director of the Raft Theatre (Theatre Row, NYC). His stage play, OLD
FRIENDS, won the Forest A. Roberts Playwrights Award; his play, FEBRUARY,
THE PRESENT, won the Stanley Drama Award. Mr. Zurla's plays won the
Colorado University Playwrights Competition for two consecutive years
(1985 and 1986). Plus numerous other theatrical awards, Mr. Zurla was
twice awarded the prestigious Theatre of Renewal Awards for his;
"Resplendent contribution to the development of American Theatre." Mr.
Zurla recently had a series of one act plays published by Open Passages
of NYC, AFTERMATH: THE VIETNAM EXPERIENCE.' Martin will be bringing his
extensive experience and wisdom to Ygdrasil, including many new
contributions from established dramatists, poets and short story writers.
Glad to have you on board.
-- KJ Gerken
URGENT NOTICE TO CENTIPEDE BOARDS: Paul Lauda's Revisions Systems had a
tragic disk crash and may take a while to become operational again. Tom
Almy's Bitter Butter Better BBS has been officially announced as the
temporary hub of operations. To continue your Centipede service, please
send netmail to Tom Almy at 1:105/290 or dial up BITTER BUTTER BBS at
1-503-692-5841 and leave a message.
============================================================================
World Without End
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I.
1945: the bomb had been dropped
from discussion. Uncle Sam stepped
out of the posters and appeared
at county fairs wearing stilts
so high he couldn't hear a thing.
Citizen surveillance was inevitable.
There were rumors of miracle
machines, mighty in their minute sizes.
Robots would replace men.
Appliances would replace women.
Deserts would bloom,
we'd put a man on the moon,
there'd be no more disease,
all our time free to spend
with our families.
Television was inevitable.
Sex could be trusted
to pick up
where the war left off.
The girls were back in the kitchen
wearing aprons pressed with sizzling
irons of immaculate boredom.
The boys took their victories back
to factories the girls had run.
Increased productivity was inevitable.
Thanks to modern anesthetics and twilight labor
girls became Mommies as painlessly
as boys had always become Daddies.
Daddy had his Cuban cigars and cocky
smile until he came home from work
and had to feed baby his bottle
while Mommy talked on the phone.
Corner bars were inevitable.
II.
Daddy started making home
movies ~ like someday
he'd need proof, evidence,
of what, he'd never know.
The bar of hot lights needed
to film Junior's first Christmas
made baby cry and Mommy yelled.
Daddy was always too close,
out of focus, never
in any of the movies.
He operated the projector,
but when everyone was sleeping
he played the movies backwards
*suddenly he's wearing a smoking jacket,
holding a brandy snifter. He's blowing smoke
rings into the polluted Pittsburgh night,
waiting for some broad*
reminder of the president
he was supposed to be.
He gave at the office, leaving
little time for home movies,
but he bought a new Super-8 camera.
The film moved so fast, he could shoot
with only the light of birthday candles,
five of them, at a party for their youngest
about to start kindergarten. Mommy cried
because she wanted another baby
something to hold and Daddy saw it all
through one zooming eye.
By the time the kids
are teen-agers, movies will talk.
He'll have had enough.
-- Kathleen J. Kramer
============================================================================
A ROSE IS FOREVER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As a writer, I always enjoyed a certain degree of solitude.
That's why, several years earlier, my wife, Jasmine, and I had purchased
a couple hundred acres in a remote area of the Colorado Rockies and
built a log cabin right in it s center. We had no neighbors to contend
with and the nearest town was a 30 minute drive away. Thus we were able
to step out the front or back door of our home and enjoy the beauty of
an almost untarnished nature as far as the eye could see.
We settled into a peaceful existence. I did the writing while
Jasmine, determined to give me creative freedom, handled the business
end of the writing along with our personal finances. This did give me
the freedom from worry or stress that I needed to allow my creative
juices to flow.
Jasmine and I shared a love so strong it was like what one
usually reads about in a good novel. We were best friends, loving
companions and wild lovers. A simple walk in the woods, even in the
winter, often turned into a very private erotic love making adventure.
It was now about six months since tragedy had struck. While
driving back alone from a business trip to Denver, Jasmine was killed by
a drunk driver. To say this left my life empty and without purpose
would be a gross understatement. Since the day I had placed her in her
final resting place on a little hill overlooking our cabin, I had
ventured out only when necessary for supplies. I preferred spending my
time at her grave side, talking to her as though she were still with me.
I had no desire to meet socially or in any other way with anyone
else, preferring instead to live in solitude with my memories of
Jasmine.
My anguish made it impossible to write. I had not even
attempted to put two words together since the day of her accident. In my
study lay the last manuscript I had written. It was finished, packaged
by Jasmine, ready to mail. It sat there and gathered dust. Having
tired of phone calls from my publisher asking where it was and trying to
motivate me to get back to work plus listening to the sincere words of
well wishers, I had ripped the phone cord from the wall weeks earlier.
Perhaps the manuscript would never be mailed. Jasmine had usually taken
care of such things and in my current state of mind, I felt that if I
mailed it I would somehow be trying to take her place. It was
impossible for me to do anything that would change any part of the life
we had shared together.
Although it was January and a fresh blanket of snow covered the
earth, I didn't take the time to venture outside to enjoy it s beauty.
The only thing the beauty of my surrounding brought me were memories of
how we had enjoyed frolicking in the snow together. Now I was alone,
that pleasure gone forever.
It was a dark, cold night. A blanket of clouds covered this
part of the world bringing with them the promise of even more new snow.
I sat before a cold fireplace, lost in my memories, dreading the
future and, as usual, feeling extremely sorry for myself. Suddenly,
from seemingly out of nowhere, I felt a chill enter the room. Actually
it was more like a blast of cold air which struck me in the back,
travelled up my spine to my neck and stood the hair at it s base on end.
Getting up, I walked to the back of the house to see if the oil
furnace was working correctly and all seemed to be in order. Although I
hadn't heard anything, I thought perhaps a window had blown open. I
began to walk around the house, looking for the source of cold air.
Every window was tightly closed and all the doors were closed and double
locked, yet the chill continued. I even went so far as to check and see
if the air conditioning system had somehow come on but, it too was off.
On the way back to my chair I grabbed a sweater from the closet
and slipped it on as I walked. How strange it was. The sweater had no
effect on the cold. I felt the chill spreading throughout my body and I
began to shiver. Glancing at the old grandfather clock in the corner, I
noted that it was only a few minutes before midnight. As my discomfort
grew, I decided to go climb between the sheets and under the heavy
comforter of the bed and try to get warm.
I took one more look around the house, again finding everything
closed as it should be. Again I shuddered from the cold and turned to
go to my bedroom in the loft above. As I neared the foot of the rough
hewn stairs leading to the loft, I glanced up. For a second, in the dim
light which leaked into the loft from the hallway below, I was sure I
detected movement.
I flipped on the stairway light and looked again. There was
nothing to see. The top of the stairs were vacant. Turning off the
downstairs light, I proceeded up to my bedroom. As I turned to the left
at the head of the stairs, I again detected the hint of movement through
the partially opened bedroom door. I shuddered again, this time more
from the unknown than from the cold.
Slowly, I walked to the door and placed my palm flat against
it s surface. Exerting a slight pressure, I eased the door open and
looked into the dark room, my eyes straining to penetrate the gloom.
I saw nothing. I reached around the door jam to the wall and
flipped on the lights. They flickered for a second and then flashed
out. Oh Great , I mumbled to myself. A perfect time for the bulb to
burn out.
Carefully I felt my way to the bedside table and fumbled around
for the lamp. When I pulled the chain switch, it came on immediately.
The glow from the weak bulb attempted in vain to penetrate the
darkness, instead casting a dim glow at the head the bed. I surveyed
the room as best I could in the dim light and could find nothing out of
order. Something else was different. I stood there looking around when
I noticed what it was. I detected the fait aroma of roses in the air.
Jasmine s favorite perfume smelled very much like the hint of roses.
This was getting stranger and stranger.
Convinced now that my imagination was getting the better of me,
I said the hell with it and stripped off my clothing. Naked, I crawled
between the sheets, laying on my side and burying myself deeply under
the heavy bed clothes. Reaching out, I switched off the lamp and closed
my eyes, waiting anxiously for escape sleep brings to overtake me.
I don't know how long I lay there when suddenly, I felt the bed
move. It was as though someone else were climbing in. I knew I was
alone in bed. I must have dozed off and started dreaming. I didn't
even bother to turn over and check. I knew the feeling of movement
wasn't real.
As I felt my eyes finally begin to relax with the coming of
sleep, I was startled to full wakefulness as I felt a hand softly caress
my shoulder. I turned quickly but the hand did not move away. Who are
you? I asked, as panic began to overtake me. How did you get here?
What are you doing in my bed?
Shhhh, came a soft feminine voice. Just relax. You know who
I am and you know exactly what I'm doing here.
Jasmine? I inquired. Jasmine, how can this be? You're dead.
You were killed in an auto accident months ago. It can't be you.
Will, my darling. Yes, it is me. My life was taken from me
so quickly that I never had a chance to come back and say good-bye.
I've been on the other side. I've been watching you, could see your
pain. Will, you have to get hold of yourself and stop all this moping
around. You still have a life to live and you're young enough to get
some enjoyment out of what you have left. I had to come back one more
time to kick your butt if necessary and help you snap out of it. We'll
be together again someday but, until that time comes, you can't just
quit. But to say that's the only reason I came back would be a lie. I
also wanted to say good-bye. Don't turn on the light darling. I want
you to hold me, to make love to me like you always did. Have no fear my
love. Everything will be okay.
With that, I felt her hands begin to explore my body in ways
that only Jasmine knew how to do. In spite of the strangeness of the
situation, I felt the heat of passion growing within me. I took her in
my arms. As I held her, I felt her soft warm thigh against my hip as
she hooked her leg over my body. I felt her dampness as she arched her
back into me, rubbing her body against mine.
To hell with common sense, I had to have her. I knew what was
happening wasn't possible, that it must be a dream. But if it was a
dream, I never wanted to wake up.
My lips began to explore her. I nibbled on her neck and felt
her body tremble with pleasure. Slowly my mouth drifted down to her
firm pert breasts. I massaged one with my hand while I took the nipple
on the other between my lips, sucking on it, nibbling it, teasing it
with my tongue. I heard her sigh with pleasure.
Jasmine and I never had any inhibitions between us when it came
to making love. We enjoyed letting our passion rule our love making
with a wild abandon. We continued to make love, over and over,
sometimes slowly, sometimes in a frenzy of activity, until the sky began
to glow with the faint light of the coming morning.
Finally exhausted, we fell to the bed together. I slid from on
top of her as she turned with her back to me. Feeling fully satisfied,
I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around her, feeling her firm body
press against mine. Like the traditional spoons, we slept.
The blinding rays of the morning sun glaring through the window
pane woke me from a deep sleep. I was instantly aware of what happened
the night before and turned quickly, looking for Jasmine. She was no
longer in bed. I quickly climbed from bed, calling her name as I did.
There was no reply.
Slipping on my robe, I looked first in the bathroom and, finding
it empty, went quickly down the stairs, calling her name all the while.
She was not in the house. I looked out the front and the back door
but, she was no place to be found.
Sitting for a while in the kitchen as I sipped at a hot cup of
coffee, I wondered. Could anything so realistic have been nothing more
than a dream? It must have been. After all, the only woman I had ever
loved, Jasmine, had died. She couldn't have been here last night. Yes,
it must have been only a dream. Yet, it had been so powerful that when
I licked my lips, I could imagine the taste of her muskiness still upon
them.
I returned to my upstairs bedroom. When I walked in I looked at
the bed, still rumpled from the night before, and noticed something
partly hidden by the blanket. Going over and picking it up I discovered
one red rose. It really had been Jasmine. She had come back to say
good-bye. There would never be another woman for me. I placed the rose
in a vase and set it on the nightstand.
Later that morning, on my way out the door to drive into town, I
grabbed the finished manuscript to take to the post office. I may never
understand what happened last night but, one thing for sure. I was
determined to get on with my life.
That was three short years ago, and you know what? That rose
still stands there, as fresh as ever with it's scent still lingering in
the room, as a reminder of that night and a testament to a love Jasmine
and I would share throughout eternity..........
-- Bill Shultz
============================================================================
Upon the Wishing Well...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upon the wishing well once I stood
and prayed, cried, and even hoped
for new feelings, hopefully good
until I fell dreamt away....
Vast ocean
Thoughts
Delirium
I once loved
I now hate
Who, What, Why?
to this day I dare not even look
cause I found, wasn't what I wanted
until I talked, read, some new book
and then fell into it...
Vast past
Thoughts
I wish
I once loved
Then I hated
I know why.
The years come and go, by seconds
life is hard, candid, but also true
and I stirred,
some measure of freedom
a cry from afar,
oh my gosh, forgot, the child calls
And I know I will make it
somehow,
someway,
...
surely I will.
( A Happy New Year poem for the elusive Diana )
-- Pedro Sena
============================================================================
SHERWOOD CONCRETE FLATS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
grey. grey and cold cement all around.
sharp edges and gritty grey,
under my feet, around my sides, and soon over my head.
the brown earth sheathed for our protection, with a grey scab.
slow footsteps on the concrete, echo off along concrete walls of grey.
metal tombs pass by, just tombs on wheels ... driving by.
inside each car, sits a person - a being.
every one of them is something. they bring bread to some,
pain to others, gifts, presents, threats, love, or simply emptyness.
each individual a collection of years of molding, of parents' yelling,
of teachers' scolding, of the lessons of their peers, of the sorrows
that they went through. millions of tiny lessons, and years of them,
to make a product that will never be completed, nor complete.
inside each car, another sits and waits for something. some wait to
return home, others running from it, some trying to get away from work,
others trying to find love - searching, searching - in their
never-ending search.
there, each occupant breaths their own air (their own fumes), listens to
themselves talking, shrouds themselves from the rest, because they are
afraid.
and they drive, drive by in the night. quietly, methodically,
going their own ways. going to their homes, apartments, mansions,
or just finding a good place to park there car. waiting to wrap
themselves in a blanket in the backseat. dilating, diaspora.
walking alone on a road never meant for the human foot, i pace.
carefully i look inside each contraption of steel, aluminum, plastic
and glass - trying to find the person inside. some sit, worn out and
tired from a hard day's work, others happily chatting away on the
phone trying to kill the loneliness, others listen deafly to the
chattering radio trying to convince them that something that costs
$19.95 can alter reality.
as i walk, i know, i got my reality - stapled and nailed down shut.
i know the way, but i don't know my way.
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. they drive by. empty, empty cars, filled with
empty, empty people, going to their empty, empty houses filled with
emptyness or just more empty, empty people.
through each now-vacant head passed an ocean's flood. billions of ideas,
maybe even more than that. inventions that could bring us to salvation
or to doom, that will never be made. books that never will be written.
shots that will never be fired. words that will never be spoken. hope
that was so desperately needed, but will never arrive. kisses that
will never reach the cheek they were meant for. people that never
got home. trains that never got to their destination, now just
rusting away in the station. waiting forever for their chance
that will never arrive. rusting slowly away, silently -
as the world spins round ... and rusts.
empty highways, empty streets. empty cars with empty people. empty homes
and empty men. and empty trains dissolving away. and concrete, grey and
grim, crumbling apart as the rains wash it away. the rains trying
mindlessly to wash the slate clean. and they pour and the rust bleeds
from the rivets, from the empty souls that dot the streets. and the
rains washed it away, down into the gutters, down into the bowels
of the earth. trying to clean the creation that will never be
clean.
. . .
if i stand here long enough, staring at the sky; looking at the
shattered moon, looking up at the rains that fall; maybe i'll drown in
the tears. i can't tell if they are mine - or just that of the heavens
crying softly as they sing another lullaby.
i look at you all, see ourselves slowly bleedin'...
while our flames burn aaaawwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyy....
. . .
(and the rains fell)
(and the people dragged on)
(and the earth kept spinning round and round and round)
(and the tears from the heavens)
(and the tears from my eyes)
(and the rains)
(fell)
-- Igal Koshevoy; March 15, 1993
TIN FOIL GHOST 10:2
============================================================================
TRANSFER
~~~~~~~~
The bus pulled up to the stop and he got on.
He asked the driver for a transfer. The sad-faced driver
looked up at him with this kind of odd expression. He couldn't
read what it was in the driver's dull eyes, what it was that sent
a quick shock wave of fear through his body.
As he made his way toward the back of the bus the odd
assortment of passengers looked up at him with the same blank
expression the driver tossed up at him.
When he sat down with his eyes glancing out the window and not
focusing on anything in particular, it started. That song. It
was a song he remember from his childhood, an Italian song, "Non
Si Vive Cosi." He didn't know Italian, hadn't heard the language
since he was a child. Why would he be thinking of this song now?
All he could remember about the song was it's title in English
and he wasn't too sure about that either. Odd, was all he could
come up with.
He wanted a scotch. No, he needed a scotch; hadn't had one
all day and it was beginning to catch up with him - the lack of
it floating through his system, mixing with his blood. He wanted
one now and wondered why he didn't get one before he stepped on
the bus. But he hadn't been thinking straight for the last
couple of weeks. Something was definitely happening to him
of late and it wasn't just because he was getting older and was
out of a job. No, it was something quite different. He was going
through a change, or so he now thought softly to himself.
The bus pulled into a stop and one or two people got
off while none got on. He noticed how odd it seemed, how
strange the passengers looked. There was something quite unusual
about them, the way they got off the bus. It wasn't the act of
moving in or out of the door, it was about their blurred faces:
all of the faces were blank. People don't normally look like
that, he thought to himself. As he looked around at the he
noticed that everyone, right down to that little kid across from
him, were wearing blank expressions.
And he noticed something else, no one said a word to anyone
else. Not one sound. He almost wanted to speak to someone just
to see if they would respond. He kept to himself. As was quite
usual with him.
He couldn't shake that song rummaging through his head. It
pulsated between his ears as if it were travelling through two
loudspeakers that were attached to the inside of his skull. He
never remembered a song so clearly, so exactly. It was if he had
memorized it, but he knew that he hadn't. Why would he have
memorized this song, any song for that matter? Yet it was
playing in his mind as if he were listening to a stereo system.
The bus pulled into a stop. No one moved. No one left nor
got on. It pulled away from the curb and continued up-town.
He moved ever-so slightly in his seat. So he thought.
"Should have brought that damn book," he thought to himself
"Should have bought a newspaper, Shit!"
So, with nothing to occupy his brain he turned to look out
the window. There was no traffic. None. No one was walking in
the streets. Nothing. He turned back to look at the other
passengers. They were all looking directly at him. A strange
tingling sensation crawled slowly up the nape of his neck. He
turned his gaze toward a woman that was sitting opposite him.
She was looking right into his eyes.
"Yet," he thought, "she's not really looking at me, not
really. Should I say something to her; ask what the fuck she
thinks she's glaring at? Better not say anything."
Then another odd realization struck him. The woman who was
staring at him hadn't blinked once.
"She's just not blinking."
He turned to an old man who was sitting two places beyond
the woman. The old man was also staring at him, looking into his
eyes but not blinking.
"What the fuck is this?" he wondered almost out loud.
"And this lousy song playing in my head too."
The bus rolled into another stop. No one moved. The front
door opened and closed without making a sound. No one got on.
It slowly pushed away from the curb and moved into the center
lane of Broadway. He realized that the bus hadn't stopped at any
red lights. None. He turned again and looked out the window.
He saw nothing. No one was there; not a truck, not a car, not a
single person walking the streets. All the lights started to
develop a weird cast, an off-white that seemed to glow, to bend
with the movement of the bus. It must be the tinted windows, he
thought.
For one split second he wanted desperately to stand, to bolt
out the door and run and run, to go as fast as he could back down
town. He froze. He felt a strange buckling jolt in his stomach
and wanted to double over from the force of the impact, but he
didn't budge, not a flicker of movement.
"Good Christ, I want a lousy scotch."
He stayed put in his seat.
The song ended and started all over again. There it was:
the music, the foreign lyric, the slow rhythm mingling in his
head. His mind began to hurt and the pain in the gut increased.
He didn't move a muscle.
And he didn't even know Italian, had no idea what the song
meant; the words, nothing. But he thought that he had known what
it meant, had known its meaning years ago, yet he couldn't
recall, not exactly.
He sneezed. But his body never moved. He tried to sneeze
again.
He did. The body just wouldn't move an inch. "Give me a
break," he thought. Only this time he thought the idea out loud.
Nothing came from his lips, not a sound.
"Hey, lady, what the hell are you looking at?" he heard his
mind ask, felt the lips move but the words never left his mouth.
"I'm not looking at anything," said the lady.
"She said that to me."
He saw her lips move yet the sound never came out. Nothing.
Yet he heard every word, every syllable. It was as if he were
listening to a radio, a stereo that had the song on one track and
her voice on the other.
The bus pulled into another stop. He wanted to stand and
get off; wanted to open the back door and walk off and start to
run. He'd run to Central Park, maybe to the Empire State
Building and climb to the top and jump off.
"That's a dumb idea," he thought to himself.
He didn't move.
He lifted his right leg to cross it over his left. There
was the feeling of the leg coming up and moving across the other
and resting. Yet, as he looked down, he saw that both feet were
still on the floor. But they felt crossed. He knew they were
crossed. He pinched his right knee and felt the pinch. And yet
he didn't see his hand move toward the knee.
The song stopped.
"That happens sometimes," a voice said to his mind.
"Did I just think that? No, I couldn't have".
"No," another voice responded.
There was no song. He smiled to himself. Than another song
started the same way. It was Billy Joel singing "Allen Town".
"What the hell is that?" he wondered.
He became very frightened.
"I'm getting the fuck off this bus!"
He didn't move.
"I want outa here!" as he sat there trying to calm his
soul.
Another stop. The door opened. The door closed and on uptown
it continued. No red lights, not one. No traffic and it's
starting to snow.
He wondered what time it was. He couldn't remember what
time it had been when he got on the bus. And why were the
streets so deserted, almost desolate. It can't be that
late.
"I'm getting off at the nearest bar."
He uncrossed his legs. Nothing moved.
"God, I'm not even drunk."
"Only had one beer at lunch. Lunch?" as he couldn't recall
his lunch.
"What did I have for lunch?"
He simply couldn't think that far back.
"Must have had something."
Nothing came to him as Billy Joel song played out and
started up again.
"Maybe I'll ride further up-town and look up Doug. We could
both go for a drink. Doug liked a cocktail in the afternoon.
Afternoon?
"Anyway, be nice to see him again, it's been a while."
He passed for a second, then whispered, "Doug who?"
He touched his face and his hand never left his side.
"I don't know any Doug."
But he must have known someone named Doug. Or why would he
want to stop off and have a cocktail with him? Why would he want
to get off this warm bus, ring the doorbell, say hello to this
Doug, maybe get invited in, take off his overcoat and watch this
stranger pour a cocktail for the two of them and then be handed
one and they'd probably sit and chat about this and that, maybe
about work, maybe about what Doug was doing these days?
"What kind of work was Doug doing anyhow?"
"I don't know anybody called Doug so why would I ring his
doorbell, sit calmly in his large living room, share a cocktail
and then get up unexpectedly and leave because I'd realize that I
was in the wrong apartment. I can't do that, it isn't nice, not
polite at all."
And he always thought of himself as being quite polite,
quite proper. Everyone had said so. Even Doug had said so one
day when they were both in college. Even that day Doug
introduced him to his wife.
"My wife, not Doug's wife," he said to his inner brain.
Both his wife and Doug had been friends back then. And they
both, Doug and his wife, had said how polite he was, how
considerate, what a terrific guy he was and how kind he could be
to people, even total strangers, especially animals. That's one
comment he never quite understood, he had always hated animals,
always.
Allen Town played on and on in his head. Of all places,
and he knew that he would never go back to Allen Town, P.A.;
never go there. Much too depressing with all those steel mills,
or were they coal mines? He couldn't remember. He hadn't been
there since he was a child, and he sure as hell wasn't going back
now. At least not today.
He couldn't even remember who Doug was, not even what Doug
was doing for a living, to make ends meet or, for that matter,
where Doug lived. He couldn't remember if there were stairs to
climb to get to Doug's apartment, or whether there was an
elevator with a short black elevator operator with a Spanish
doorman, or was he an Italian? Was the place painted? Oranges.
It was painted in a thousand shades of orange, all different
shades of orange.
"That Doug was a weird dude, what with painting such a nice,
such an expensive apartment a thousand shades of orange. Maybe
another color would have been more appropriate, more
satisfactory; especially in the den, a room that should always
reflect a certain sensibility, should have a fireplace and a big
ugly dog with slippers after dinner and a smoking jacket for
wearing on Sunday mornings while reading the Arts and Leisure
section from the New York Times.
He could never understand why his wife said he liked
animals, especially when she knew the opposite, knew all along
that he didn't like them, didn't care for them even after he did
have a cat once when he was a small child, but it drowned one day
when he wasn't looking and from that moment on he had promised
himself, took an oath while holding the dead animal in his
soaking hands, that he would never have another animal again, one
that could get itself dead and cause all kinds of hurt inside
because they wouldn't be there any longer to pet and to play with
especially around Christmas time when having a real live animal
was fun as you watched it play with all the wrapping then get
sick and throw-up all over mother's favorite Afghan that she made
last year so that all her shitty friends could tell her just how
talented she was and still being able to raise a family all by
herself when times were tough enough, especially when your
husband was a bum who left you at the wrong time and times were
bad enough without having to take care of five kids who never
listened and were constantly eating her out of house and home but
would hopefully one day get a job and send money to help keep the
old homestead afloat during these hard times.
The bus pulled into another stop. The rear door opened and
the lady opposite stood up, turned and left. The only passengers
left on the bus were the old man and himself. The door closed
and the bus pulled off.
No red lights.
His head hurt and he couldn't get the thought, no, the
question of who Doug was settled in his brain.
"Who in God's name is Doug? And why would he paint his
apartment so many shades of one color. Orange. Especially in
the den of all places. The bathroom, okay, but not cover over
the oak panelling and the big fireplace and gold and green lamp
shades."
Now that he thought about it, it wasn't orange, it was more
like shades of red. "Yeah, maybe red."
His stomach pain was worsening. He wanted to urinate. He
wanted to urinate right here sitting in this bus. He wanted to
urinate right down his pants leg.
So He did. He sat there and urinated all over himself.
Everything was getting soaked; the seat, his pants, even the
shoes were filled with his urine. He urinated for a full at
least a full minute. It was the longest he had ever urinated.
The old man was still looking at him and never blinked and eye.
Nothing moved except the bus and the urine running down his leg
like a river flowing down a mountainside, flowing to the ocean,
filling the Great Lakes, drowning little kids who play too long
and hard and get tired when they swim out too far, drowning
little cats, especially when they're put in old, musty potato
sacks that are thrown from a very high place - like off a bridge
near Allen Town, P.A. But who likes cats anyway, his mother
always said. She had said that we couldn't afford to keep any
animals, they were dirty besides, and it didn't matter what your
father had to say about anything only that if he did that it
would only be the straw that broke the camel's back, the final
irony from his self-centered point of view, which, she had said
on many occasions, was the god damnest truth besides.
"I don't know any Doug or Douglas, no Douggie nor Dugan, not
a Dan, not even a Daniel or a Dudley, so who the hell is this
upper-middle class slob called Doug that lives up-town in an
expensive apartment that's been recently painted a thousand
shades of red? I, for one, certainly don't. And this bus hasn't
stopped in a long while."
He wished the old man would stop looking at him. Maybe he
should get up and move to the front of the bus. He stayed put.
The song played on and on in his head, a head that was aching
even more with each city block they passed; his head and
that sharp pain in the gut.
He put his right hand on his stomach and pressed down. Maybe
that would ease the biting, the constantness of the pain.
"Shit," he thought, "I didn't think I pissed that far up."
His right hand was soaking wet. He looked down and didn't see a
thing, didn't see his hand on his stomach, didn't see any
wetness. He just saw his body sitting straight in the seat.
But he was so absolutely sure, so positive that his right hand
was resting on his stomach. He pushed at his hand. He tried to
push the pain back inside. He felt that pressure but saw no
movement. But he knew it, felt it, felt it just as he felt he was
sitting in this bus moving up-town heading towards Doug's house
for that cocktail.
He closed his eyes. His mind just didn't want to work any
more. He was tired tonight. Tonight?
"Why am I sitting on this bus," he wondered to himself. No
response, just Billy Joel rocking on and on.
He slowly moved his right hand toward his abdomen. Something
is there and it didn't feel like it should be. It wasn't part of
his clothing. It was flesh of some sort. And he felt like he was
holding something, something quite odd. Something heavy. He
dreaded opening his eyes to see what it was. That was the last
thing he wanted to do at this very moment.
Something forced him to open his eyes. His eyelids hurt. The
old man was still looking at him.
Maybe Doug's home now, he wondered. But he's always home
lately. He thought, "Hell, with it, I'll get off and go see my
buddy, Doug. Doug was always good with things, figuring things
out, coming to solutions and conclusions about many things, all
sorts of things, making logical and reasonable assessments on any
subject, no matter how alien it might be to his nature. Doug had
always been a big help in such things, in anything. Maybe he
could explain why his stomach hurt so much."
"But why paint an apartment all those shades of red?"
Even his own wife commented on Doug's use of color. It was
this morning that she had mentioned it, wasn't it? Or was it
something else she had commented on? Was it some other subject
they had talked so earnestly about? Yes, it was something else
they had discussed in the early morning hours.
"Christ, it was very early when we had that talk," he
thought.
But what about? About the den, he wondered? They were in the
den. He was sitting in his favorite leather chair and she was
sitting opposite him on the sofa.
The bus continued up-town.
"What did she want to tell me. She wanted me to give her
something, something that I had been holding in my lap. But what
was I holding so tightly," he asked himself and the old man.
The old man just stared at him without batting an eye.
He hadn't been holding a book, not even his usual morning
coffee. He remembered that it was too early for coffee.
"What would Doug say about all this?"
She had sat there looking nervous, which is something she
never usually was. She was very calm individual.
"Just like Doug's wife."
As a matter of fact, he recalled that they - his wife and
Doug's wife - were, in many respects, very similar. Like
twins.
"But when did Doug get married? Jesus, I even forget what
his wife looks like."
He turned his head toward the window. The song stopped and
started again.
"No one in the streets today. Must be a holiday."
He was getting tired; hadn't felt this tired in months.
He thought to himself that everything was going to work out.
They'd be able to keep the apartment, he'd find another job and
they wouldn't have to take the kids out of school.
He was beginning to enjoy the music that pushed through his
brain. It was the sharp pain in his gut that bothered him. His
eyes closed again.
"What did she want from me?" I didn't have anything in my
hands that she needed so badly."
He remembered that she was crying. And his wife very rarely
cried, never showed much deep emotion. She got that from her
mother, the stiff-upper-lip-type, that elegant lady.
"No, I won't give it up," he had said to her in the early
morning hours.
His head pounded.
"Christ, do I want a lousy scotch!"
Anything to ease the new constant pain.
"When the hell am I gonna reach that stop?"
He didn't move and couldn't remember what stop he wanted. It
was someplace up-town. He knew that. He knew it was near Doug's
place, the place with all those red stains streaking those deep
oak walls. He had to get off near Doug's, Doug's place that
looked very much like his own, a den with a fireplace, a wife and
a dog.
But he had never really liked Doug very much. Could never
really understand why they knew each other. He always had to
compete with Doug, and that was one thing he had always hated: to
compete with anything or anyone. He was tired of competing,
especially with a person that was suppose to be a friend, a
friend that had a wife and den just like his own, had a wife that
was looking straight into his eyes this morning, looking from his
eyes to his lap and back again, her eyes constantly moving back
and forth and crying all the while.
But what was in his lap?
He realized that he was sitting in a very large puddle. The
feeling was like he would have when he was a small child back in
Pennsylvania. That's when he would happily plop into a puddle of
water after a summer rain storm. How happy was happy then? But,
he thought, that was then, now is now.
It was just last week when he realized that he was no longer
a child, realized that he was an adult with big responsibilities:
an expensive home, a beautiful and loving wife, two kids, a den
and a big ugly dog that he loved. And he wasn't suppose to like
animals, animals that could die and leave him alone like when he
was a small child when his mother would constantly yell and
scream at him and his brothers and sisters, especially his father
when he was around, when she'd yell because they would eat two
meals instead of just one, yelled because she hated animals,
especially little gray cats with funny spots, yelled because
there was no husband to yell at. And here was his own wife this
very morning yelling and screaming at him. She was screeching so
loud that the dog went to hide under the big chair in the living
room.
What was she shouting for? He had no idea.
Why was she talking so loud when he could hear every word
she said? He wasn't deaf. She had never screamed like that
before, never in all the years they had been married, not even
when the kids lived at home and they'd get on her nerves. Never.
What he would never understand was her yelling over some
stupid song that he was singing. It was, after all, only a song,
one that he remembered from when he was a child, a little Italian
song his father would sing to him right as he was about to fall
asleep in the warmth of the evening's light and thunder. It was
the song his Dad would sing every night, every night before his
father finally couldn't take the screaming, the bills, the
responsibility of life, the heaviness of his existence.
Oh, how his father would sing and sing in that deep voice, a
voice that would sail across the mountains, would flow over the
hills and valleys, through the mines and deserted streets, a
voice that would calm the very beast in his heart; his heart that
would finally burst from the pain, from his loneliness, from the
empty pay envelope, from the empty icebox, a voice that would
spread out before the world as he would stand in the front yard
and sing those sad Italian songs of things lost, of times in the
past, songs of kings and queens that loved deeper than all other
loves, a voice that would touch the ground and bounce up to the
heavens as he cried in his songs, as he raged at the sky, his
life that would be no more, raged at the stars that would blink
and blink, that were so far out of his reach. His father that
would calm his young soul in the dark, touch his small face and
smile into his child-like heart, a heart that was bursting
because of the love he had felt for that father who was now so
far, so very far away, far away in that mystery world of old
Italian songs and dreams, a father who couldn't speak the
language, couldn't count over ten, a father that had given this
small boy so much, so much to fill an aching heart, an aching
memory.
And his wife was screaming this morning like his mother,
screaming because he was sitting straight up in his bed singing
the song his father had sung, singing at the top of his resonating
lungs. He hadn't been dreaming. No, he was sitting up singing
like a bird, like an eagle, like a volcano, singing early this
morning as the dawn was breaking.
His head hurt.
He had asked his wife to stop the screaming, told her that
he didn't know why she was carrying on this way. So he just
couldn't stay in the bedroom any longer, the yelling was burning
into him. And what had he been talking to her about right before
he left the room?
"Was I shouting something too? Yeah, maybe I was."
He hated yelling, any kind of yelling, yelling for any
reason. He would never yell, never.
The strangest sensation began to envelope him now on this
up-town bus. It was as if he had no legs. He quickly looked down.
They were still there. But they seemed all wet, not a feeling,
just the sight of a large puddle under his feet.
The bus passed another stop. At least, that's what he
thought. Billy Joel played on and on.
And he never thought of hitting his wife. That was something
so removed from his character, his middle-class personality. But
what else could he do when she lunged at him like that. They had
just been sitting there; him in his favorite chair, her on the
leather sofa. She just jumped at him.
"She must have really wanted that thing," he thought. I had
to push her away, didn't I?"
"What the hell are you jumping at!" he had screamed at her.
"Doug's wife would never do that!"
He began to feel badly about striking his wife, hitting her
in the face like that.
She just stayed on the floor crying and pleading with him,
praying for him to give the thing to her, let her take it away
and put it back where it belonged.
"Why the hell does she want this?" he thought. "She had
never wanted it before, had hated the very sight of it from the
day I brought it home."
She had never understood why he had wanted something like
this, something that big.
He placed his head back and let it rest on the chilly
window. He looked up at the ceiling and spoke out loud; "Why
wouldn't she just let me hold it? I wasn't hurting anybody just
holding on to it."
All he wanted to do was dream, day dream a bit. He couldn't.
But without a job, a job that he had worked at for the past
twenty years, nothing could be done, nothing. He hadn't believed
her when she told him that everything would work out, that there
was a market out there for guys like him, people with his sort of
talent and experience. Little did she know that that was a pipe
dream, a fairytale. There were no jobs for him. He had no
training and now he was over the hill in his profession. He was
top-dollar now. Who would pay top-dollar when they could get a
kid and teach the kid, at half the cost? Who? Nobody, that's who.
Oh, he had made phone calls. They all led nowhere. All he would
get was, gee I'm sorry but there's nothing now, maybe next month,
next year, we'll keep you on file, send a resume. And even the
friends that he called had nothing, felt embarrassed for him, or
themselves. He had even tried to cash in on some favors that were
due - he hated that - and all he got was, "Some friend you are.
That's shit, Doug, trying to pressure me that way. What kind of
friend are ya suppose ta be, Doug. You're an asshole! And yes,
there are NO openings, buddy," as the other end of the phone line
went dead, very dead.
So he knew what had to be done. Simple. Life would no longer
be complicated, no longer contrived and false. Too many years of
that. And where had it gotten him? He had thought about this for
weeks, the weeks he spent reading the "Want Ads", walking from
one large skyscraper to another, from one receptionist to
another, from one "No, he's not in now," to another. What had it
all been for in the first fucking place.
"So I drank a little bit these past two years. So what.
Shit, everybody else did. I wasn't the only joker at the cocktail
parties packin' it away. There were hundreds of other guys
pushin' the sauce down their fat guts. I wasn't alone. And I'd
look like a damn jerk if I took a Tab or a Coke. Shit, the whole
place woulda laughed me outa the room."
The bus churned on.
"I mean, hell, so what was a drink at lunch? Big stinkin'
deal. The bar was full a guys like me puttin' down a cocktail or
two. They all had jobs, dealt with goin' back to work after
lunch. They made it, were able to hack it."
His head felt like it was about to explode.
"So I missed a day or two. Big deal. I had vacation time
comin'. And that fuckin' V.P. from accounting, man, he had
no right to say those things to me. I did the work, got the paper
out. So I was late a day or two on finishing. Big fucking deal,
man."
His stomach was coming apart. He felt it fall to the floor.
"And my whore of a mother had no right to yell at Dad. So he
couldn't speak English all that well. I mean, so what. She had no
right, at least not in front of us. No way, no how. And who the
hell was she ta talk? A jerk was what she was. He sang, so what.
He'd find another job soon enough. And boy, could he sing, sing
like it was the end of the friggin' world, sing like there was no
tomorrow."
He knew that all his father wanted was to be left alone to
sing, to sing his gentle ballads, his opera that he had loved
since he was a child in Italy. That's all.
"Was it askin' all that much? Was it askin' too much to give
'em those moments on the front lawn, those times when he could
talk to his God in his own way? Was that too much?"
"I'm forty-five fuckin' years old. Where do I go from here?
I go nowhere is where I go. Who needs the lousy humiliation? Not
yours truly. Enough's enough."
He closed his eyes and saw his wife; saw her face, her soft
blue eyes looking at him. He opened his eyes to erase the image.
Her face was still in front of him. It was as if he had not quite
opened his eyes.
He closed them again. Her face there.
Opened, still there.
Closed and she cried into his face. She just put her head
quietly in her hands and sobbed.
How pretty she had always been, he thought. He knew that she
was the kindest person he had ever met, the most giving and
gracious lady he had ever known. That's why he had come to
realize that it had to be this way.
He no longer wanted a drink. He didn't care if he had one or
ten. He had no thirst for a drink. And his stomach was rolling
across the floor of the bus.
He wanted to ask the old man across from him to hand him his
stomach, but he didn't say anything.
"Maybe the bus driver'll help me out, hand it to me. Nah,
better let him just keep driving up-town."
His head hurt.
He had asked his wife to stop the screaming, told her that
he didn't know why she was carrying on this way. So he just
couldn't stay in the bedroom any longer, the yelling was burning
into him. And what had he been talking to her about right before
he left the room?
"Was I shouting something too? Yeah, maybe I was."
He hated yelling, any kind of yelling, yelling for any
reason. He would never yell, never.
The strangest sensation began to envelope him now on this
up-town bus. It was as if he had no legs. He quickly looked down.
They were still there. But they seemed all wet, not a feeling,
just the sight of a large puddle under his feet.
The bus passed another stop. At least, that's what he
thought. Billy Joel played on and on.
And he never thought of hitting his wife. That was something
so removed from his character, his middle-class personality. But
what else could he do when she lunged at him like that. They had
just been sitting there; him in his favorite chair, her on the
leather sofa. She just jumped at him.
"She must have really wanted that thing," he thought. I had
to push her away, didn't I?"
"What the hell are you jumping at!" he had screamed at her.
"Doug's wife would never do that!"
He began to feel badly about striking his wife, hitting her
in the face like that.
She just stayed on the floor crying and pleading with him,
praying for him to give the thing to her, let her take it away
and put it back where it belonged.
"Why the hell does she want this?" he thought. "She had
never wanted it before, had hated the very sight of it from the
day I brought it home."
She had never understood why he had wanted something like
this, something that big.
He placed his head back and let it rest on the chilly
window. He looked up at the ceiling and spoke out loud; "Why
wouldn't she just let me hold it? I wasn't hurting anybody just
holding on to it."
All he wanted to do was dream, day dream a bit. He couldn't.
But without a job, a job that he had worked at for the past
twenty years, nothing could be done, nothing. He hadn't believed
her when she told him that everything would work out, that there
was a market out there for guys like him, people with his sort of
talent and experience. Little did she know that that was a pipe
dream, a fairytale. There were no jobs for him. He had no
training and now he was over the hill in his profession. He was
top-dollar now. Who would pay top-dollar when they could get a
kid and teach the kid, at half the cost? Who? Nobody, that's who.
Oh, he had made phone calls. They all led nowhere. All he would
get was, gee I'm sorry but there's nothing now, maybe next month,
next year, we'll keep you on file, send a resume. And even the
friends that he called had nothing, felt embarrassed for him, or
themselves. He had even tried to cash in on some favors that were
due - he hated that - and all he got was, "Some friend you are.
That's shit, Doug, trying to pressure me that way. What kind of
friend are ya suppose ta be, Doug. You're an asshole! And yes,
there are NO openings, buddy," as the other end of the phone line
went dead, very dead.
So he knew what had to be done. Simple. Life would no longer
be complicated, no longer contrived and false. Too many years of
that. And where had it gotten him? He had thought about this for
weeks, the weeks he spent reading the "Want Ads", walking from
one large skyscraper to another, from one receptionist to
another, from one "No, he's not in now," to another. What had it
all been for in the first fucking place.
"So I drank a little bit these past two years. So what.
Shit, everybody else did. I wasn't the only joker at the cocktail
parties packin' it away. There were hundreds of other guys
pushin' the sauce down their fat guts. I wasn't alone. And I'd
look like a damn jerk if I took a Tab or a Coke. Shit, the whole
place woulda laughed me outa the room."
The bus churned on.
"I mean, hell, so what was a drink at lunch? Big stinkin'
deal. The bar was full a guys like me puttin' down a cocktail or
two. They all had jobs, dealt with goin' back to work after
lunch. They made it, were able to hack it."
His head felt like it was about to explode.
"So I missed a day or two. Big deal. I had vacation time
comin'. And that fuckin' V.P. from accounting, man, he had
no right to say those things to me. I did the work, got the paper
out. So I was late a day or two on finishing. Big fucking deal,
man."
His stomach was coming apart. He felt it fall to the floor.
"And my whore of a mother had no right to yell at Dad. So he
couldn't speak English all that well. I mean, so what. She had no
right, at least not in front of us. No way, no how. And who the
hell was she ta talk? A jerk was what she was. He sang, so what.
He'd find another job soon enough. And boy, could he sing, sing
like it was the end of the friggin' world, sing like there was no
tomorrow."
He knew that all his father wanted was to be left alone to
sing, to sing his gentle ballads, his opera that he had loved
since he was a child in Italy. That's all.
"Was it askin' all that much? Was it askin' too much to give
'em those moments on the front lawn, those times when he could
talk to his God in his own way? Was that too much?"
"I'm forty-five fuckin' years old. Where do I go from here?
I go nowhere is where I go. Who needs the lousy humiliation? Not
yours truly. Enough's enough."
He closed his eyes and saw his wife; saw her face, her soft
blue eyes looking at him. He opened his eyes to erase the image.
Her face was still in front of him. It was as if he had not quite
opened his eyes.
He closed them again. Her face there.
Opened, still there.
Closed and she cried into his face. She just put her head
quietly in her hands and sobbed.
How pretty she had always been, he thought. He knew that she
was the kindest person he had ever met, the most giving and
gracious lady he had ever known. That's why he had come to
realize that it had to be this way.
He no longer wanted a drink. He didn't care if he had one or
ten. He had no thirst for a drink. And his stomach was rolling
across the floor of the bus.
He wanted to ask the old man across from him to hand him his
stomach, but he didn't say anything.
"Maybe the bus driver'll help me out, hand it to me. Nah,
better let him just keep driving up-town."
So it had to be this way. She was too kind, too good to him
for the past nineteen years, too damn good. There were no
alternatives. Poor Doug had tried, in vain, to come up with at
least one solution. Nothing. The whole situation had passed over
into another plane, someplace that was alien, so far away from
his life and times.
He had lost control of the situation, his time and place in
the universe. That simple. And that knowledge was building in him
day after day, drink after drink, hangover after hangover. It had
just become too humiliating, too foreign to his nature, his
personality.
There are limits, he would hear himself say each day as he
sat having his third scotch.
"Ya just can't hold on ta certain things," is what he would
say to himself as he looked into the men's room mirror. "Gotta
let it go," he realized as he began to talk himself into a
certain vision, a particular image, an image quite his own.
He knew that's how his father would have thought.
His father was a man who had always put things in a certain
way, looked at life in a particular way, his own fashion, you
might say. His Dad was like that, a man unto himself, a sparrow,
a swan, a swimmer - hard and fast - a no-win situation-type guy,
a hero, a ballet, a Christmas pie, a gauntlet, a galaxy, a worm,
a mouse, a monster, a tough son-of-a-bitch; a warm, delicate hand
holding his on rainy days and sunny days, a hand that would lift
his small body to the sky and back; a giant, a mystery, a whore,
a thief, a prince, a pawn, a palace, just a man, that's all.
He tried to recall what his father looked like and couldn't.
And right now, at this very instant, he wanted that more than
anything else in the universe, just to remember what his Dad
looked like.
"We never painted our den red. Not all those shades of red
and orange. Did we?'
He simply couldn't remember.
He started to softly cry as he sat in the bus, the bus
heading up-town to see Doug, his tears falling smoothly, gently
down his aged face. He could taste the salt striking his lip,
touch his tongue. He cried and cried.
All of a sudden he had this tremendous urge to hug his two
kids, to take them and hold them so close that they would push
themselves into his very body, his very soul, to take them up and
kiss them, to swallow them whole, to put them inside his body. He
wanted that more than even seeing his father's cracking face. He
would, yes, he would take them around the world, put them on his
shoulders and carry them to India, China, to the moon. Yes, he
would put them in his back pocket and carry them to work so
they'd never be out of his sight. He wanted to take them and put
them in his mouth so that he could forever taste them, taste
their life, their future, their very smell and texture. He wanted
that now but now he was on a bus riding up-town. They weren't
here with him, not now, not on this bus.
He tried to stop crying but couldn't. And yet, deep inside,
he didn't want to stop crying. When he cried he felt himself that
small child playing in the mud during a summer rain, felt the
mountains hold him, the hills caress his body and mind. But that
was when he was a boy, now he was a man.
And the tears started to fill his shoes.
Fuck it, he had thought at that one instant in time. Those
were his very words. Fuck it as the steel tube with the wide,
ever so big opening turned toward his stomach. He pressed the
opening against his belly as his wife screamed and lunged for him
again. But it no longer mattered, not for him.
She screamed and screamed into the blackness that was
beginning to surround him as his stomach came through his back
and splashed against the far wall; the wall with the fireplace.
She screamed and screamed at him, at his desperation, at his
conclusion, at his dreams, at his final thought of his father's
face pressed against smashing glass, at his father's face
crashing through thousands of tiny glass particles, at his
father's face as it shattered the glass of scotch that lay before
him on the kitchen table in November, at his father's face calm
and still falling off the chair and onto the linoleum floor,
screaming at his father's face gone white and red, all red from
the skull that was no more, the skull that had come apart from
the jaw, from the nose, screaming at his father going so far away
in November, yelling at his father to put down the gun, put it
down before you get hurt, at his father's smiling face as he took
that drink and the world came apart.
His wife had lurched as his upper body separated from his
lower body, as the chair started to move back pushing both of
them into space, into the gentle air.
And she screamed and screamed at him, had hated him in that
one moment, in that second when nothing could turn that instant
in time back, nothing could become something else, in that one
moment of time when what was was. Simple.
He could still see her face; a face filled with such pain.
He thought for a brief second, that he had never seen so much
pain in one face, never.
He also saw the walls of his den as he and his wife were
falling backwards. They had all turned red, red splashed all
over, covering everything. Thousands of shades of red mingled
with the oak walls and the off-white ceiling. He had never seen
so much red.
Her hands were grabbing for him, grasping for him. He saw
her face as they struck the floor, her on top of his upper body.
Her tears were meshing with the splashed blood that completely
covered her face.
She had tried to pull him up, to grab at him, to hold his
torso to her frail chest, to breathe life back into his shell,
into his now vacant head, his stale lungs.
She picked herself up and sat next to his hollow limbs and
lifted them up to her, held them to her, tried to force her life
into them, to give her energy, her life-force into his heavy
nothingness.
And there hadn't been any pain, not really, just a blankness
that said; "You're here."
"What?"
"It's your stop," said the old man.
"Oh," he answered. "Thanks."
The bus pulled into a stop. He stood up, went to the back
door. It opened by itself. He stepped from the bus and walked
right off the edge of the world.
-- Martin Zurla
============================================================================
THE AFFLICTED
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The candle flickers in a non-existent wind..
Not that anyone need notice;
Deliverance, as god would say,
is not a substitution: 't is death itself.
Death's sole positive and terse arrangement,
strange with life: a steaming nostril
bled with each evolving century of love.
The picture's not as I would have it
seen torn. Had I not been born...had I not been born!
Mere speculation...fate's a non sequitur, a non-selective
entity. And I have fled the angle of a birth unshorn...
and give or take an ear or two
have made the universal saviour
scorn...
I have been so many things, many personages;
many entities, all too many masks. Discussing...
after all, these pages damp with blood, carry a
reality...imaginary blood, none the less
more real than birth is to a child: Birth recalled:
...discussing, of all things, the price of clay...
And why the price of clay is nothing
amazes even sometimes god...
You are restless...wish to go...
My rambling has upset you...?
No. Then...Do not leave me...do not go...
Have I been in love?...you ask. The time is ripe
for oranges...pomegranates...and sand. Yes, sand.
A million million million stars
upon the netherworld of universes in between
this taught of you and your reality (vitality). I can't
remember when...is it charm or curse?
But what's it matter anyway
We sigh the clamour of our lives away. While fighting
fighting...the fighting clashes swords so far away.
Do you think that war will touch us now, in a century
of volatile ignition?
Admit it. You are frightened! Let me hold you.
Just a little while. Until the warm wind
blows the truth away...
No, I am not cradled in some mother's arms.
Am far from harm. No doctor clones the healing
of my charms. I drink dark wine; poison blood
from a chalice gods dare not approach. I drink
divine. Death. For death will save the universe.
Or death the universe will purge. Urge
a human entity towards intangibility.
I let myself go wrong. Did the wrong things
purposefully...felt the force of retribution
down at heel...from it. (False alarm?)
You say no...I, simple fool
do nothing.
I sat beneath an ellum tree...
I cut into an ancient oak
a scrap of poem that I wrote
went back there a year ago
to find it faded overgrown
with scales of life's vitality
and not the bleak delusion
of humanity...
I have become a hermit
A hermit not to poison you
with shadows of intransigence
but some to reach out more
by being what I was before
not half the man I am
nor was to be as each year passes
each year masses
death...
I am poisoned...let us make a deal.
Go down to the river near the sparkle of the waterfall
early in the morning when the soft birds sing
and rest upon the eves
of those deserted houses
haunted and so little known
to what is our ideal...
and throw a stone into the splash
of water...count the waves
upon the quantum waves...eternity
upon eternity
upon the unrelenting way to god.
I walked between St George's church and
gothic university. Spotted sea gulls
screamed a storm. Threw away
a piece of paper,
scrap of poem... scrap of food
for some poor fool, deluded as a poet
thinking he could write, in poverty,
a fable for the innocent, explaining (ultimately nothing)
life.
Go, idle fancy, prepare this rusted soul
to walk a disanthropic mile. The painted desert
is not, know it now and weep...the painted desert
is not loaded with the curse of copse. Instead
the haunted rattle and the scorpion
gloat on our defeat.
I see the mind, Teresias, knowing death
to be of death, spoke death's rattle.
Vast we are to fail, and fast we are to sacrifice
our voices. Knowing dying is not easy (or perhaps,
just knowing that it is) we chose to sacrifice ourselves
to other disparate activities. The hospital of life
is full and, overflowing, is not kind.
And given knowledge, we refuse in kind.
And the shadow of the bell tolls louder
than the bell itself. Which is not, if ever
thicker than the thickest skull.
Yorik begs to be the jester, once again,
he never was or thought so after all.
The dagger dangles. The snowflakes jangle. And
the jungle burns. I was privy to an understanding once
but forget it was an understanding, and
forget it was near anything conclusive...
I forget it was...a word or two...
a child so deeply troubled...doing
nothing wrong...wrecked with guilt...defenceless...
anger fear and shame. Was I ever free to be
alone again?...I was never young again...
I shut the poison out. Left alone
I wrote my songs. Alone. Lost to time
I wrote...Show me how to write...
remember...show me how to feel no pain. (Remember.)
I tried so hard...so hard the heart bled deeper
deeper deeper and I thought I felt no pain...
It was a lonely wanderer, who said, 'dead dry tubers
in a rotten land.' But knowing they who die alone
can never say they forced a helping hand.
Beauty is in words, but never words
as these, used in retribution, anger, fear...
resentment that will cry a child to sleep.
There is poison in these words. And there is poison
in a shadowed land. The window is a wall and
does not understand
the world. The curtain rises...is withdrawn... is just the mind
asleep.
And neither do I mourn the sun
in hand. The sun that rots good flesh and love
turned ugly, into hate and warms the lover's
ultimate refusal to believe. 'This
refuses what was once so warm. And now is overwarm...
and now, for god's sake! only harms...'
There is neither shadow, light nor substitute.
On my way to work, rested, hand against rough wall;
felt faint: with little sleep, and rested wearily
in dreams where strangers do not hesitate, and lovers argue,
still denying what was left.
Paint rots canvas
(this is what the poet said)
Eyes of blue
We gather you
(emotionally I think
but am not sure)
Distant
This oak is poison is
Tristram's glory
The mirror that reflects
No story
The killer minotaur
Created
Those who would
Deny him life
Lest we glance
a shadow of our death
This illusion
gathers slowly...
slowly gathers
once elusive
still elusive
truth...
(I won't debate
what is now aged
and still so fresh to
gentle youth
lost to innocence...lost truth...)
O these four rotten walls! These shards of evidence!
Torn sheets, splintered pain. So much like
the mind created it.
Rusty sailor and
white albatross.
After all was said and done:
the wedding guest
still
denies complicity.
It is a murderous wind
bodes ill tonight. I am alone, but do not venture forth...
speak to walls, Hamlet and Ophelia.
I speak to Oedipus, Lazarus, confused, confessed
and risen from the living hell to death.
I speak: to Yoric
living, not as god, but as a shrunken jester's head.
Know that once the world was clean. Now is shattered
with explosive heat. The id the psyche and the horoscope
premeditate defeat. And fear the ultimate solution is
a broken confused mind that heals too slowly, and the wound
is all that's left to heal the lie.
I do not suffer. Do not ever think I suffer. No.
The curtain stirs. The breezes tremble
autumn leaves murmur...trembling... children sleep
with heavy lids a-dream...
those who think
they run away from life, experience or pain,
run away from nothing. Run only from the childhood magic
and from poetry, towards a desperation
in the heart of darkness. Who is there? Do I hear...
I think there's someone at the door...but...well
the wind is always much too friendly here...
Speaking in soft whispers, as of death,
they feel themselves life's madness
life's desperation, love's dance,
death's death.
And witness this, a ridge of cirrus catches
just a ridge of sun. The evening places heavy stones
upon a heavy wind.
I should try to work some more.
Perhaps just go away. But
frightened I am here to stay. Beneath the blanket
in a cave, old, and yes... King Lear was brave.
The blind old bugger knew his place.
They said, 'he shouldn't be alone' and
'why does he not eat?'and yes I was alone, and yes
I didn't eat 'at table' with the others.
Like a monk I ate the fragments of a rich
debate...and cast off scraps of bone too bare to eat.
I have bad teeth.
Lasted years.
A prisoner, more myself than of the others.
They said, 'how strange his eyes! see how he looks
upon the world.' They would not walk with me.
Sent me home from school. 'He is not like the
others'. 'Muss balt zu erholung.' They tried hard
to take me, but I would not go. Frightened I just
stayed at home. Could not, did not want to
know (but knew eternity) the world.
The world of murderous activity.
The years rolled on, as years would go.
There were joys and heartaches and the pangs of love.
O once so young! behind the revelry
a caution hid. Smouldering beneath the surface
deseasing every atom (The breath of its decay!).
I studied this geometry, it said the world
composed a symmetry. A perfect structure mortals
could not emulate. It wasn't so at all.
I studied this cosmology, and saw the chaos
and the beauty and above it all
the loneliness we claim our own.
This thinking, I would query others, this and...
what is thought? what's it do?
how are we the cognisant? why should this sensation
be so real? Why should we be we? Why should they be
they. Why can't one be of a total? Among others?
Why are we alone?
Midnight. Cat screams. Dogs bark.
The circle is a coded hell. Seven ages dark.
And somewhere in the distance...in another land,
a monk agitates himself
to life.
'Living's such a duty thing,
without it...why the lie...?.'
I don't know what to say to those
who would not clutch the vine
and gather to the dregs.
After all, are not, how say?
'the living dead'.
'Living's such a duty thing...
a duty, duty...lie..' All a pack of lies!
Listen. Do you hear it? far beyond the wind,
the ocean and the shoal...far beyond the universe
no bells toll...
Listen...
'Living's such a duty thing...'
And Basho wrote this poem:
Leaves of autumn
silent...
scattered...
Splash
I remember sitting in a restaurant
alone one afternoon
winter snow on rotted boots too thick
hair down to my shoulders
Debbie (not a lover but) a friend
came by. Talked awhile, like any youthful
indiscretion talks. Had an 'empathy'
meaning 'we were young'...
anyway...she asked about this poetry
and how it 'conquered' life...
I said: it doesn't 'conquer life'
She frowned. She was pretty, but not beautiful
tried to be a friend. I just wanted solitude.
I guess, a fool alone...
She wished me well in my pursuit
kissed me on the mouth
and left to find another 'friend'.
Nothing
conquers life, I guess. The end...
I guess. Even these solutions are not real.
Offer only bandages too temporal...
'My love is fire, and the sun
shining bright and beautiful...
my love is dark and dangerous
no one wants to stay for long..."
Too late, I guess, too late...
grown tired of the old debate
Grown tired...
no solutions...I am just too old...
my mind too cold...
It's hot in here (Herod's cold redress?)
I leave the curtains drawn
windows closed (There has to be no death).
I no longer want
to view the world up close.
The fear is on me and I shiver at the sound
of others in the hall.
I burn a candle for the fall
of humankind,
and all...
alarmed I have not slammed this lead
upon the page for nothing. Have not
smashed these words, stinking in their
solitude, for nothing. Have not lost
an age to sleep for nothing. Have not scanned
the texts of age... and, nothing.
Of late have studied this cosmology
drawing circles and appending notes
to cast a doubt upon the sanctity
of all that went before ( and
all, of course, that will come after).
No doubt we can't know all: are much deluded...
think the end is near?
The end is no solution. The end is just a...shall
I say it? figment? The end, for god's sake, well
may well be just another tear!
How well we think we know it all! The bitterness
and the recall of the offence.
The needless killing of a future hope
or even just an idle dream!
Sometimes I just want to scream!
Tell me? Do we the "modern living",
not prepare for death? History confirms the lie.
We have hidden death away. A lie.
Tried to void the realm of life.
Dante knew it otherwise.
The modern church has much in common
with a modern lie, the broken temples; shards of empire,
they destroyed. Rome's a Modern Vatican. This modern
Vatican is Rome. All regains survival (as it's cause).
The splendour and the decadence.
Take the all in life, for life's not permanent,
eternity is for the soul, pleasure, body.
But eternity remains the body (supposition? soul?)
It is precisely part of that reality
the quantum set denies. The body is
reality, and does not yet conflict infinity.
Rather it's the mind that holds the shadow
by the ear. It's the mind we compromise.
The mind we so restrict to this conformity
humanity requires for subsistence.
The mind, not the body, requires the reality
of what is magically denied by those chose to flood
conception with a static form. It means...
well it means...
why do I return no hope
to those who would require to explain?
Why do I return no hope?...Life requires all that
isn't there, but is. From the micro to the macro.
From a superstring to...
Well,
I forget the rest. Or maybe I just choose to
not remain the same... nor to play the game...
I am tired of this thinking...everything tonight
tires me...is there no reprieve?
There has been no going out tonight.
No sense of pleasure. No fine argument. For?
Against? No soft persuasion to 'come home'.
No night of love. No fairness. No sweet voice
to comfort me...
It seems that I have been alone
so long. I can't remember when
I last set foot upon the earth. I have always been
an alien; but lately this reclusiveness
has made me force a sacrifice too many.
Too often I have wanted an 'aloneness', but always
found companionship, sweet voice of love and sex,
to be a bond available... I have found those bars
and friendly warm have catered to my needs.
But that can never force the dread despair away.
The mind implodes. And this emptiness refuses to
reveal a home.
No shred of evidence for hope.
I chose to live alone. The sequence of my life has been
even among friends...alone. Even among lovers
(yes there have been many) such a desperate feeling...
so alone...
O this tires me. And the poem is not finished.
(The poem's never finished). It craves an audience,
and yet there's none around. I remember:
'T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound
Fighting in an captain's tower'
and even:
'Einstein playing the electric violin
on Desolation Row...'.
So much haunted by ideal...
Let me tell you how I felt. I was young and searching
for the 'truth', never more defined than how I
heard that song. The voice was like a mission
in a desperate jungle waiting for a god.
If the old gods let us down... the new ones
fizzled out. They gave us sanction
and they let us down. Remember of them fondly.
Play them on the radio...a grand nostalgia trip.
They say the 'good old days'...
But memories are more than good.
We are never that again. As youth explores.
The elders seek security.
It has always been like that.
It will always be that way.
The large arena of society
doesn't read much history
that is all.
I try cull the classics to familiarity.
Their sensibilities and how too few there are
comparing disability trough righteousness...
Celine commanded eloquence, but only through elastic verbs
denied to others. We hold the songs in awe, and precisely
won't create. Others own our thoughts and blood.
It's easier accepting when committed
to a TV screen. Death's not part of life...it seems...
Death's out somewhere...there....
This crisis should have made us realize
different societies. Some who deem
our lives absurd. Some we might call enemies.
Some tyrants. They might think of us the same.
We who make, like those, commitment
to their own.
The crusades...mostly turned against
our own society...(the child says: mother
why can't all us live in peace? Why fight
and kill? destroy the world? so, don't we like
ourselves? the home we have?)..why turn against ourselves
with vengeful insecurities?...perhaps it's only part of
Gaia's cycle. Perhaps we can't control the violence
Perhaps we're just too clean...
part of something that controls the earth, the galaxy the
universe,
and even god (if she exists) beyond the
universe itself...
Perhaps. If we exist at all, that is.
If we exist at all and Rama does not look too serious.
Ah. The light of morning. Second day!
And I have not confused myself the more.
Have drank of the waters of the Lethe.
And forced myself this ruddy air to breathe.
Which coats the windows with a foggy film.
Obscuring cancerous sun and acid rain.
How will we ever th'Elysian fields regain?
This is the Borderland. A step across the desert
to oblivion. A mirage in the distance.
A thirst for knowledge that is never there.
We falter and express a deep concern. We
stand upon the edge to learn! We blink,
and somehow it's another something over there!
another path to take, thought to ponder,
rage to rage. Another war to preach.
Just think of it! Eternity!
Forever and forever. Each
our soul to keep...
Are we the ones to populate the universe?
Are we the only ones alive?
Sometimes astronomers look at the midnight sky
with trembling in their eyes.
Sometimes we just have to be inventive
with our own philosophy.
Come gaze into the crystal ball.
She met me in the hall.
She said 'I came'. I mumbled
'There is justice after all'.
She wondered why my poetry
was too much too difficult.
She wondered why I read so much.
Asked so many questions
that I had no answers to.
She asked me about the olden songs.
And how the sixties were, and how
I changed from what I was and then...
I said 'We all get older'. She was yet so
young. First year university. Studied art.
(Or so she said) Made some comment on my canvasses.
Said ' Why not have a show...?'
My art is private. I said that.
My art is private. I don't compromise.
'We all do'. And she pulled me down
upon the sofa and was warm and comforting
and soothed the savage fever on my brow.
She was something of a 'beauty queen'.
Knew too much of 'love', I deem
It wasn't right for me to be with her.
But then...she never came again.
And I forgot her just as fast.
I said I cannot compromise. But then I live alone.
Paint shadows - this imaginary brush says all.
I light a candle burning and I gather up my trash.
And hum the tunes the radio ignored, ignored too long.
Sometimes sundays are a mess. And sometimes
I refuse to divulge my address
to those who would become my friends.
And sometimes I refuse the mirror image
of myself. And sometimes I refuse to see at all.
Sometimes I can't see at all.
Bright ears in the jungle of my thoughts.
I ponder shadows. I ponder sounds I cannot separate.
I ponder the expressions of the trees.
Motionless, yet bending in the breeze.
Waves of the savanna. Waves of sound and
waves of light. Waves of everything denied.
On the beach a woman waits
for the raft of the Medusa.
On the telephone another waits
for the answer...
and somewhere one more poet sings
who isn't heard at all
and all the women come and go
I guess it's not what it might seem
The matrix of the universe
churns.
A forest burns.
(The bones rattle
but the skeleton is pure).
Shackled, shackled, shackled to a wall.
(A whore)
The poem's dead.
The poet sings. I guess
he's still alive.
Somewhere singling the afflicted
out. Dogs bark. Humans shout.
Where's the difference...?
Blow the candle out.
-- Klaus J. Gerken
============================================================================
**************************************************************************
[ POST SCRIPTUM ]
**************************************************************************
FIVE HAIKU POEMS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1
Tonight I visited
The grave of all my dreams,
No one else was there.
2
Why did that crow
Scold me,
As he flew away?
3
Lark on the wing,
Tracing melodies
In the sky
4
Desert of pavement
And old buildings,
Only pigeons remain.
5
Enraged wind
Wildly thrashing
Defenceless trees.
-- Lawrence Thurlow
============================================================================
+=====================================================================+
| 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 |
+=====================================================================+
URGENT REQUEST TO CENTIPEDE BOARDS:
Paul Lauda's Revisions Systems had a tragic disk crash and may
take a while to become operational again. Tom Almy's Bitter
Butter Better BBS has been officially announced as the temporary
hub of operations. To continue your Centipede service, please
send netmail to Tom Almy at 1:105/290 or dial up BITTER BUTTER
BBS at 1-503-692-5841 and leave a message.
. . .
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.
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[ YGDRASIL INTERNET ]
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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
fail.
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 Web Coordinator - for submissions
of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs,
wordprocessored files) in any standard Unix & MS-DOS way, and Web
specific messages. Use Igal's e-mail address for commentary on
Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access; or you may send
files via FTP to "ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil/uploads". 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!
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[ YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST ]
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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
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.
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[ COPYRIGHT INFORMATION ]
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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, 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:
+----------------------------+
| YGDRASIL PRESS *** |
| 1001-257 LISGAR ST. |
| OTTAWA, ONTARIO |
| CANADA, K2P 0C7 |
+----------------------------+
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