+======== March 1995 =========================== Volume 3, Number 3 ========+ | | | | | *** *** ******** ******** ******** ******* ******* ***** *** | | * * * * * ****** ** *** * * **** * * *** * * ***** ** ** * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * *** * * * **** * * * * * **** * * *** * * ***** * * * * | | ***** * * * ** * * * * * * *** ** * *** * ***** * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | ***** * * **** * ** *** * * * * ** * * * * ***** * ** ** * ***** | | ******* ******** ******** *** **** *** *** ******* ***** ******* | | | | | | ************************************************************************* | | | | | | [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] | | | | | | 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 | | | | | +===========================================================================+ *************************************************************************** [ 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. ============================================================================ ** ** ****** ** ** ** [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ] **** ** ** ** ** ****** ************************************************************************** RESOURCES The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on Internet through the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil". This site contains the collections as: 8-bit MS-DOS ASCII text, universal 7-bit ASCII, ANSI color graphics, GIF pictures, word-processor laid-out files and other goodies. The entire collection can also be accessed by FTP as "ftp://ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil". Each month, the Ygdrasil Magazine is posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.arts.poems. We hope this will give readers a break from having to dial long distance and figure out which BBS has Ygdrasil available for them; provide a more intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede; and increase & broaden the audience & coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers. E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL Any person that can access Internet e-mail (ie. FidoNet, Prodigy, AOL) can access Ygdrasil's online resources. To get a E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL GUIDE, send e-mail to the Internet address "listproc@www0.cern.ch" (if you don't know how to send Internet e-mail, please ask your system administrator for instructions). In the message, leave the subject line blank, and in the body enter two lines into the message: "www http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil/wwwmail.html" and on the second line "quit". The Guide will be waiting in your e-mailbox within a day. NOTE: CASE IS SIGNIFICANT - "www" is not the same as "WWW"; if you don't type it the exactly same way, your request will 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! ============================================================================ ************************************************************************** [ YGDRASIL PUBLICATIONS LIST ] ************************************************************************** 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. ============================================================================ ************************************************************************** [ COPYRIGHT INFORMATION ] ************************************************************************** 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 | +----------------------------+ ============================================================================