YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

May 2000

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla; Rita Stilli; Michael Collings

ISSN 1480-6401


         Land Of Lunatics
         "ashes, ashes"
         chapter past armageddon
         So Yoko Go
         In the Labyrinth
         "Free Mesa"
         WILD BEACH
         The Heart Around My Stone
         August And Warm
         American Oxide
         the pearls I wear
         over coffee
         She Still Sings.
         Return to Soto.
         Crone at Grozny.
         Blue Eyes.
         THREE POEMS
         from Grandma's Fortune Cookies



   Land Of Lunatics
   If These hands that caress my daughter
   could caress the past
   If this mouth that kisses my wife
   could kiss Fatima
   for one last time
   when she came back from Belgium
   to visit us
   and brought chocolates
   If these legs
   could walk through time
   and drink again and
   that last cup of coffee with milk.
   all I do
   smoke cigarillos
   and listen to
   asking myself
   what the hell did I do
   in my previous lives
   to have landed
   in this land of lunatics.

   "Where is it she hangs her hat?"
                  hunger panged
                     the criminal cat
    as he vowed appeal to cop a feel
                            in stereo subliminal messages
                                          that he conceived
                                          to plead for       Peace.
   She arrived and  replied, "But this Nobel Prize
                               doesn't come free,"
          then listened, resigned,
   as her kitten whined his commitments--
               mentioned quite unintentionally.
          He needed new shadows
   in which to swim,
               bought mostly whole
         he thought:
     she      liked skim,
     he'd    outplayed his master and
                coped with disaster,
         while faster wasting time on her whims.
           The structural damage and
         fiction's slight dare combined
    with unconscious feline nightmare
               still stuck       in his head,
                   misled       when she said,
   "I can't love you       but I want you"
                 to know I might care.--
   He stole through her window
         (she'd locked the doors)
              saw the rogue tomcat
            who slept on her floor,
          loudly he grieved
              Sylvester out thieved
                as she pretended to care
               and he                  to ignore.
                  Darkness attempted to
               push meaning across
                   while the few words he knew
                    remained at his loss,
   content with price paid
              for the sacrifice made
           as she broke him quickly
          nailed his paws to
                          the cross     where he amused
                   chaos with subtle sly verse
           addressed to her--
              "It must be my curse
   to remain confused because chasing the muse
   is like parallel parking without reverse.
   These gelatin moods had longed for your impression
   'til they changed into strange thoughts of depression
   for a nine-foot flaw, distracted, I saw that
   Lady Justice misread my obsession."

BILL RANSOM "ashes, ashes" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ i. after proposition quick decision a collage of love binge guarded, she unpinned the corsage "needle's thin go talk to god," so the monk departed to identify his true vocation damned by her loose occupation ii. refreshed he confessed the tryst was a risk took a test did his best though he positively pissed; felt sick and cold as she impersonally reminded him part of her wicked soul yet remained behind with him in the mud occult bad blood resulted in a flood of sudden silver sympathy while he filtered other's empathy into a puddle of nasty graphic suds iii. another day spent in life-crisis, he prayed to allah, jesus christ, and isis called to thor, raphael, dionysus, horace, baal, ares, osiris but his chorus failed to ease the virus; he kneeled to sealed fate genuflected to hate waited then wrote complicated anecdotes, notes, psalms, and hints on his palms and parchments he printed his defense on vellum and papyrus dispelled his conscience because it inspired this prominent descent iv. on medication, his desperation lied to quickly make his point before he died; sickly avoided: quarrels, cues, churches, pews, refused to employ morals while he screwed the world; deployed his toys in spy's disguise to a new girl brave and well-behaved nice for his final rise, took her to the grave but he couldn't look in her eyes v. "in an array of dna d.t.a. the poison plague we all will surely drown, fading in obscene waves as we pass miscast parades of protein found around" the shade aids what's left for death as we all fall down
BILL RANSOM chapter past armageddon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the blue sky boiled violet then swirled cloudy blood red as the colors of twilight mixed with the oncoming storm together, thousands of nameless faces and voices prayed at the summit as they waited patience tested by multiple choice indecision alone, content to view reality though a radical spectrum he watched the spectacles with natural amazement and token fear (flaming clouds dropped fiery welts swelling blisters on helpless creatures as lightening's fingernails scratched the dirt of Earth thunder blundered in ears unused to their torment while an iridescent sky filled with the fireworks display of devastation rapidly descended upon the faithful land and sea rippled overlapped until the Earth regained her grasp over oceans carving canals as they retreated from her mountainous fingers) he was suddenly aware-- everyone drowned under the waters destroyed by apocalyptic terrors from the sky swallowed by magma beneath the earth; the angel of death tardy or awol refused to anoint this as his judgment day revelations desperation as vapors declined to reveal god's prismatic promise to contrast the futile gray and pink tint of morning as it faded into the blue sky
BILL RANSOM So Yoko Go ~~~~~~~~~~ Do you know where heaven lies? Or anywhere dogs might go when they die I guess I know where mine resides she's by the side of the road rolled over alone-- if only I would've known-- I nod not to god but to memory unburied abandoned & stranded suddenly ferried down the Styx-- while Tiva, her sister licks fatal wounds under west Texas moon. Split the wolf-mix whines final cry howls her goodbye while I sob and deny she can't be replaced: her freckled face, silver mane, speckled brown eyes filled with tears, fears, rain, loss, pain, and surprise. She won the race her finish line-- final whine ends when my crumpled best friend's bent snout descends. Now I declare a toast to Yoko the Ghost the most delicate canine design; celibate & spayed her parade turned to gray. She dissolves into dust I must not forget albeit upset at the harsh recollection of losing her unconditional affection. For Yoko's sake I hope there's a field up above of veal, squirrels, and steaks, shoes, boots, and gloves-- I showed her how to speak & to shake, but she taught me how to love.
BILL RANSOM In the Labyrinth His cricket conscience asks him to resign The constant clamor in medieval mind Still clamped to give-up-now like a leech Trapped in moment by her circle spell Contained and drained in hell as well Cause heaven hovers just out of reach He burns with the pain of repeated decision He yearns to stay to rephrase his revision And convince the crowd that satire is not a flaw The results discovered were uneven expected Didn't bother to appear to dis(respect)-or-respect it As he dodges daughter dragon's wicked claws In the Labyrinth Together he gathers his emotions so close In a pseudo-connection that only one knows Plays fine guitar line, in a pleading plan of the past As his indifference curves shift to the left The more that she offers, the less he accepts That their situation, his agitation won't last He needs a break from this tragedy score Grabs a fresh bottle and readies-sets-pours Confused at the Styx, he returns to his daze Where life as a metaphor has no cause to object To vampire desire or to the pain in the neck Of being bitten, smitten, or lost in a Minotaur maze In the Labyrinth He's numb with the fear of a new episode As a winding minstrel down a wandering road Paved with her whims and forced to misunderstand He's pleased to serve her passions each evening Wants and deserves more, now he's leaving To discover the answers that lay near a sober end He doesn't like this place or its connotations His scene's a disgrace--governed by Haitians Who needle voodoo dolls of specified drone Complex is the depth of misplaced successes Though he's seen the priest, he never confesses She makes him feel together except when alone In the Labyrinth With the sudden sense Of pride he hides himself inside A maze of grays and misguided ways Not meant to cause offense-- In the Labyrinth
LAUREN ARMSTRONG "Free Mesa" ~~~~~~~~~~~ An amethyst in my navel but I can't feel it unimportant its there It isn't hard to keep my eyes closed its harder to keep them open I force thoughts and all the rhetoric out of my mind Ignore the places my body itches Ignore the quietly noisy background quiet quiet quiet quiet I forget my body exists Farther into myself forget the mind forget consciousness nothing nothing nothing nothing The entirety of my body rebels against calmness jerking me off the bed full body convulsion what happened to the desert? everything extreme quiet my spiritualism that takes four and a half beers and a button and I become the coyote melting into the sand I am a surrealist painting look at me and you will see a two dimensional fish or someone's face or a Prussian soldier but on the mesa I run and run and run and run until my clothes fall off and hair streaming down my back with the serpent coiling up my leg and titillating me into the cold air collapsing convulsing bleeding into the ground so that is why the sand is red it is a woman being free
DUANE LOCKE AFTER CONTINA D'AMPRESSO ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I hurry by heavy sweaters, Misty breaths, skis on shoulders, I hurry by people struggling to repeat What others told them they were. I hurry towards the avalanche That erased the road To leave what I was, The person spoken into me by others.
DUANE LOCKE OUR LAST CAMPARI IN ROME ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We'll depart, we have been defeated By Agrippa and all those revere The commonplaces of the state. We sit here, close, drinking Campari, Glancing at a temple built by Agrippa During the third Consulate To celebrated the defeat of something That posed a problem, like us, To the grandeur of the state. We touch, watch swallows Whirl around an obelisk. We long for their erratic flight, But will return to our regular lives. We are not swallows. No ambitious politician Will ever built a monument To celebrate the victory Of the state over us. Our defeat will be overlooked.
DUANE LOCKE A CAMPARI AT CONTINA D'AMPEZZO ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Now with snow outside, The whole landscape, a pure whiteness, I understand. I had a choice of roads, I took the one towards the deepest winter. It was the wild green road I loved, But was afraid not to freeze. The pale blue shadows between The high piled snow, A blue like the blue of her eyes, Were some compensation.
DUANE LOCKE THOSE WHO COME BACK AS GHOST AND DO NOT ASK FORGIVENESS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My uncle wore a black felt wide brimmed hat, A white shirt, with the top button pulled off, Black suspenders, black unpressed pants Everyday in the year before he drank himself to death. His will surprised his wife, Surprised his children. No one could comprehend Why he left all his money To a girl who worked in the shirt store Where he bought his white shirts.
DUANE LOCKE WILD BEACH ~~~~~~~~~~ Mangroves slap their branches And their inhabitants, tiny red-eyed crabs, Against my cheek as I stroll down a wild beach. Inside the mangroves a vireo That constantly repeats his one note. This beach, too diverse, too complex For the mind to turn the landscape into a tame pet. This landscape is beyond containment by the mind's leash. Nothing can be clarified, defined, classified. The organizing and destroying mind is overwhelmed; Pure perception is born. I'm no longer separate from the earth, Thus I'm fused with the dowitcher Pushing his long black bill into the dark oozing mud.
DUANE LOCKE TITUSVILLE, FLORIDA ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I sit, look over water, lean on bark or skin. My tree is a grackle, or a girl with dark hair. The wine is almost gone. Not far from us old men reading sport pages, Waiting for the lift-off. Another sip of wine, she and I press closer together. Grip each other When we see the silver flashes of emerging dolphins. We both become the rhythms of the dolphins. Our trance is interrupted By an old man shouting, "Look, the blast off."
ROB DIEBOLD Honey ~~~~~ I found a tang of small clover honey which fell from God's dark plumage and I find I need to examine this golden ochre jewel for debris and pollen and other minute fragments of God's beard or bee's legs This may be my nature today's nature This will be my source This may erupt into my void and occupy me with an abundance with a stocky fullness and a bouquet of watering dance music I have noted a similar effect from sea spray and occasionaly the moon's rays This is not your tobacco sweetened with molasses nor is this sweetness excreted by aphides or ants Fluid yellow simple and handsome Thick and sticky and handsome upon my thin wrist and chin
ROB DIEBOLD Undivided ~~~~~~~~~ What attracted you to me in the first place? Was it my heavy extra limb or my lucid yellow eyes and eggs fertile? Did we sense the big light? scent of light so large I waxed you beneath me to me Six cells wrapped in wing We flew beneath and between flew softly in the light softened ourselves with light Articulated bodies moist and firm and thin in the middle where you have no hair or taste You realize that when we join we have no nature no mother's scale no other eyes no mother's cell dividing soft cell dividing That when we join we lose our color we lose our veins Humming blindly to each other we fall from the long green limb and settle slowly in the pool of birth Relaxing We release our amino acids combine our acids Our signature is very loose foaming we rippled and shrank and I tasted your quivering goodbye voice Then the ants carry us deep marching and singing They are kind and they bite us down down deep into their own large light Our thin shells are nested and content We are the warmest fuel for many happy happy conversations
ROB DIEBOLD The Heart Around My Stone ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ No more fluids no transfer tubes not splicing or wrapping welded tatoos tatoos no more melted on twisting spines than spices dying in the dark you were all the way in me all the way up to the stone in my heart casting animals cling to walls our spinnerets spinning our walking legs wrapping us no more the earth was our pulse churning driving thin air and a storm on a salted sea we became lost uncoupled no basting and joining tears not painting a rose not red but a slight saffron dust of mold on a shelf beside a broken vase reminding
ROB DIEBOLD August And Warm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This remarkable peach toast morning has so clearly gifted me a bloom of rising spirit in the slow adobe air I touch stones and weave small grasses with my hands I am light and brown and alive This season healing season Standing and turning to the Sun to all my good good Fathers who warm my twisted scars as He warms the desert snake on broken stones on smooth red rocks I bake my bread I sweat my oil I bend to the burning soil My feet are dry and thin and anxious to run sweeping into the dream of the swollen blue evening leaping into the hulking blue yeast of this soft and violet night I have some turquoise and amber where the sweet and sour pull of flesh releases my talk song whisper releases my cactus flower scent When the tumbling clay roof of the church gives up its heat like the smoke from the farmer's dark brown prayers Then I will sleep and dream of the sad stray dog we call Abandonado Tomorrow we must visit the priest He has injured himself again
ROB DIEBOLD Sigh ~~~~ To slide myself down almost spinning like a child Unbend the stacking muscles the tempered popcorn knots of spine The vibrating wall of exhausted flesh supplies the loose loose physical and ungracious moaning of thanks and release Feathering sighs warm against the low fuel hum of cool arms outside the flannel fold Stretch my heavy length and come back shaking and breath deep breath deep the india ink the sound of rain A river of dark air and babie's breath move across my streetlit cheek as silver symbols spill dark cocktails across my eyes
ROB DIEBOLD American Oxide ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Oily tar and oil and dirt hot road bakes wavering heat stained highway black through hard blown death rising beside piles of rusted guns Love lies bleeding in a drainage ditch grafted on to itself a weed I breathe the smouldering air thin and dry we are wasted by degrees of exhaust Mouth and leather plumes gas gasping tongue draws dust and spews pain of long walking movement on surface streets forever walking sticks of dirt pounded feet Limbs are sun swaying a harsh lunatic dance We mock blessed ourselves! My own yankee pope fingers kissed my withered lips mumbled bloodless psalms I sweat confusion spore of decay is dry We weld each other upon iron oxide men whose shadows burned our crumbling walls... Also from the East came rumors: dark armies of mad jackboot priests in kidney throbbing columns fast toward dawn approaching heaving and swinging their knee-hung unformed twins dangled and sang: "People eat in the extreme heat by night and today wine becomes meat flesh is the bread" So be it As dogs and the lips of dogs they licked their stale souls to save themselves until their sky dried organs and filthy moons of false love fell like beards and the beard of God fell like feathers As if under under white skies turned black and the buzzing from steaming clouds we hid beneath the over pass our strange breath stank of love and grease as animals limped past crying We opened our eyes and our collective nightmare jibbered like lightening nauseous half shot and reeking I see mountains sparking shear force splits friction heated falling out and away slicing back and spreading thickly slamming through the canopy on this quaking earth electric Wind pelted skin of onion stung by flies and seeds stretched cheek to cheek neck to chin unboned Hard beneath me pang of odor harsh men with teeth horned nails clacking bad soup bad feeling surrounds I must leave them all with a whittle fine pin prick of love hoof of love Sterile miles stolen from miles of ragged soldiers attending....and exploring the wounded insects scuttle past a broken shelter hiding man beating child spattered broomsticks he is crying he screams his love crusted loathing We touch ourselves inside We smile with recognition teeth bright and dizzy in the sun on earth gifts to each others hollow fists and fingers in eyes tearing eyes windowed fast with mercury balling sliding coursing golden fruit juicing past cheek of apple passion rotted We do not leave this road I fear danger Smell of ammonia Smell of america
SHANE JONES the pearls I wear ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dear Doctor Lawence, the pearls I wear remind me of the ugly ocean you showed me - that of which no young girl could ever love. I remember - in the yellow of summer, the sky flashed red when my eyes closed for you, and you held such a large key, as the locust melted my tiny brain. the pearls I wear, remind me of the brown office; where I saw sharks sleeping under your skin, as you handed me green pills - promising me sunny days with your razor smile. but all I saw and all I see. is a pallid circus. still I miss you, your love, Sarah
SHANE JONES Her ~~~ sarah almost trips over her own bra on the way to the bathroom. she is very drunk, stumbling in vanilla siloute, I watch her every move from bed. outside, an old man yells at the moon, while pissing on his wifes flowers. and a young blonde cries- in the arms of a stranger, holding onto good memories of her, x - boyfriend. i feel very safe in bed. drunk sarah sitting on the cold toilet seat singing, "do you feel like we do" by Frampton. i sit up. and look out the window. i can hear her crying.
SHANE JONES Midnight ~~~~~~~~ The combination Of those Two sounds, The rain hitting the fall leaves And The symphony on the old radio Made me think, "It's all very sad - the music, the nature - but both are very beautiful, and very true." I listened. I felt.
SHANE JONES over coffee ~~~~~~~~~~~ I finished my third cup of coffee and continued to listen to 3 women ramble on about poetry. how horrible. how sickening. Mozart was playing through the shop and I was reading Ginsberg, and , contemplating America. how horrible. how sickening. One woman lectured on Keroack. what did she know about Keroack? 3 times divorced, 50 extra pounds in 4 years, tired face, 2 kids, everything gone to shit. I got another cup of coffee and sat next to them. But they were very boring, and I was very boring. it was a very boring time. I decided to leave. 1) got into my car 2) lit a cigarette 3) turned on the radio 4) began to drive- very far west. Destination - San Francisco
SHANE JONES Saying ~~~~~~ Cashier says, "is that all miss. ?" Girl says, "no I want YOU!" Cashier says, "Ok. I leave work in 10 minutes." Girl says, "Ok. Meet me at Cocos Motel in 20 minutes, room 118." Cashier smiles. Girl smiles. He meets her at the hotel room, opens the door. She is laying under the sheets. A yellow corner lamp lights the room. Girl says, "ah! Ah! YOU are here!" Cashier says, "yes, I am." Girl says, "come, c-c-come to bed, dear." He undresses and gets into bed. Girl says, "FUCK ME NOW!" Cashier says, "Ok, I will." He climbs her. Girl says, "oooooooooooooooooooooohhh o o oooooooh." Cashier says, ".." They finish. Both lay on their back, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the ceiling. The girl moves on top of the cashier - straddles him - and looks down at him. Girl says, "I LOVE YOU!" Cashier says, "I know . . . this was fun . . . but next time can you be the Cashier?" Girl says, "MY GOD! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE . . . YOU!" They dress and head back home.
ROBIN OUZMAN She Still Sings. Madrid. Jan.2000 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yesterday: I could only have changed at Alonso Martinez , heel of the esculator, fifteen years ago, white mouse, voice wavering silvery stairs, she disappeared; and so it was I saw her there some years later, mouse in tiny operata , purse nowhere but the floor, she disappeared. Once I saw her accompanied , but only once mouse. Today she's sallowed , brown mouse, at the foot of the stairs, her tin voice rattling the shafts, where we pass black moths through her quivering flame circumstantial ghosts, she slings stings like fireflies: she still sings by a cold fireside. December 31, 99. Isla de Soto, Rio Alba de Tormes, Santa Marta Alba de Tormes, Salamanca, Spain.
ROBIN OUZMAN Return to Soto. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am snow. I am glass. I am the sands my footprints pass. The water was grey. The isle was brown. Wrens wooed in winter birches. The sun glared in pale blue. Rank of marshy river reed reeked with frosted sand. Was it my ghost that walked away? Was it my ghost left there to stay?
ROBIN OUZMAN Crone at Grozny. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Shawl of sacking, chin to limb arced like a waning moon, she stumbles through chaos, desolation, ruin, scars: a faggot on a bank of embers, ground brittle, sawdust and drifting planks. This is no dramatised icon of re-enacted ritual, but a haunted intangible glimmer of the immortal, seeping through a wound like blood through a bandage, where on the wide and winding river across the plains float only rags.
ROBIN OUZMAN History ~~~~~~~ When all its dead have gone, where then is history's song, but yet for the unborn. Wear its garb of poison, be shot with it at dawn, or its cemetries adorn. Listen not its roll of drum nor its toll of confusion, listen to your heart's time, Drink love's draught of wine, on every level of creation the muse is matrix to illusion.
ROBIN OUZMAN Guernica. ~~~~~~~~ Winter branches twist into the moon a filament, silver stabs the heart, here, where the unnatural electric light, shatters the naked eye, partitioning here and there, and another eye follows me everywhere, inhuman, shedding dream in deathly pallor.
ROBIN OUZMAN Blue Eyes. ~~~~~~~~~ As the doe my eyes were blue. I did not suckle the breast but for the scorching kiss. My flesh was seethed Of bone, my eyes floated on white flesh lapping in skies doves flew, jackals howled in the hills. I ran on the lake with the crow overhead, while winds blew, under sun, moon and stellar mill, sealed in my eyes of blue.
WILLIAM FAIRBROTHER THREE POEMS ~~~~~~~~~~~ "I'm dead to the world" Mom would announce plopping down on the divan kicking off pumps gulping vodka martini rocks
This particular memory resembles an old old film blanched by numerous projector bulbs over the years into haunting faintness some places not even an outline of the figures remaining but viewed so often I see everything clearly as if from fresh film
We undress and disappear smell our clothes we are perspiration that is our relationship to the Universe, Earth, each other we are sweat Until we drown and crawl back up and walk erect again


   from Grandma's Fortune Cookies



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

       Welcome to Newsgroup alt.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.

       The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. 
       Created 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 many world-wide Bulletin 
       Board Systems.

       We 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 access, without phasing out any more conferences, since 
       the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means 
       that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative 
       user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.

       Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

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  . REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings

  . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
  . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. 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
  . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ 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
  . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
  . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
  . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken 
  . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
  . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
  . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

  . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp

  . 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

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  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995,
  1996, 1997, 1998, 1999 & 2000 by Klaus J. Gerken.

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