YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

September 2004

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Heather Ferguson; Oswald LeWinter

ISSN 1480-6401


   Maria Jacketti
      Zinnias and Nectarines 
   Mandy Pannett
   Averil Bones
      STICHES I – IV
   Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
      The Helm of Madness
      The Walking Aborted
      The Purpose of Genes
      May River Madness
      Moments to Minds to Madness
      To Venture Alone
   Gale Sprinkle
      These Are Not
      These hands
   Kelly Ann Malone
      Golden California
      Comforts of Fear
      Mortal Seasons
      The Body Bag
      We Wish
      Penny Lee Pincher
      Just Lucious
   K.S. Subramanian
      New Tribe
      A windless Cell
   Laura Stamps
   Steve Klepetar
      Ghosts in Love
      Here Come The Tourists

   Stephen D. Rogers


Maria Jacketti

Zinnias and Nectarines

Let us plant zinnias and nectarines
in our garden of green rebellion
before flowers become illegal
before the nectarine leaves for another planet --
let the zinnias wear loud hats --

and the let the nectarines sweat ambrosia
and marry outlaw apricots – and plums
and while they’re at it – may they weave
and kiss alive new crops :
the black sheep melons will
smell like bubblegum and coconuts –
or whatever they want to smell like.

Welcome to the farmer’s market
in my glove compartment, 
the pasture up my sleeve,
where you and I
will plant the kaleidoscope, 
where our old dungaree souls will be nourished
once again.

Mandy Pannett
Hot winds over Bruges.
               in Paris slashes the Seine.
In these, the most  ancient of kingdoms,
               are waiting  our turn.
There is no rain.
We snore on with dry throats and eyelids
                prickled in grit.
A dream
        of wild frogs
             in a  tangle of jelly and slime.
Amber on beaches drifts with the tide -
                in stickiness, a desperate lie.....
Over the Channel the hot winds creep.
                                        There is no comfort 
of rain.

ON A SILVER NOTEBOOK RECEIVED AS A GIFT ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You are new to me; a face well washed; eyes scribbled shut against soap. There are stories in hiding here, offstage, walkie-talkies and whispers, intercom calls. I will ink you out with my impurities. Fill you with garbage and wet leaves. You are a cheap recording of spells, a gaudy, tacky horoscope, runes and psalms and one for all. You are St Francis bestriding Assisi, Clare in her chastity, Sister Moon. You are Abelard broken, an ageing star, Eloise imagined, alone. You are a herring of Mercury, jazz in a quicksilver sea, scatter of coins from Judas a-strangled, Midas= alternative dream. Are you the solitary footstep in sand, spotted by Crusoe, lonely man ? You are down as the curse of the Prince of Morocco - sliver of chill on a Belmont night - Sentence – Celibate, rest of his life. And maybe you witnessed the crises of Arthur’s bully boy gang? Mid life, menopausal, no longer a-questing, nothing of value to seek any more, nothing to find but themselves. You are all of these things my notebook and none. Fantastic the gift we’ve begun.
BIRDSONG ~~~~~~~~ to write without pain skimming. Dazzle of gnats my nerves bending like wires around curves not seeing the weasel hung on the tree the spartacus cross claws on the twig. Grey light washes the darkness away and I have been waiting an hour for the sound of the first bird song
Averil Bones STITCHES I ~~~~~~~~~~ I didn't think I'd sleep much teetering, as I was, on a canyon's cosy shrapnel edge. First time in your bed, I was scared. A single touch would have sunk me, sent me tumbling down precipitous battering slopes. I hated to think that by morning you might have me rolled, bruised and dusty, and there'd go my heart again, swallowed by the earth. STITCHES II ~~~~~~~~~~~ I woke (still balanced on an edge), at least as much as a day-dreamer sleepless through the dark can do, and the warm sun fell like lovely honey through the open door as you rode out into the day. I threw down the covers of the bed. The crevice was quite plain in the morning light. Threading my bone needle with strings of limpid courage, I pulled the ragged edges of the blue sky sheets together at its foot, dizzy with the depth of the fall below me. My first stitch snapped. My thread was not enough. STITCHES III ~~~~~~~~~~~~ I gathered the faces of those who had fallen from your walls, melted them with water in a pot, and spun a hot toffee mix that hardened the string. The smell was butter burning after knot and stitch, but it seemed it might just do the trick. Knot and stitch, knot and stitch, and the tussle of a tangle to hold me back. I am from a fishing family, wholly patient, sometimes to a fault. Knot and stitch, stitch and knot, sealing up the last gusty gap. The mattress bulged and bucked so I tested it first with your cat. It held, but the cat ran away. STITCHES IV ~~~~~~~~~~~ The honey sun dried my hair quickly, and I ate naked in the empty flat. The bed was still, calm, whole. I tested its pillows, got trapped in the sticky mess of morning sleep, woke to buck and moan on the canyon stitched into fabric. Yes, it was enough.
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr. The Helm of Madness ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ you're the vision that I'm lost w/out roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out jousting at immaculate skies your eyes like vivid stars illuminate my darkest dreams bedazzling the night sifting what seems your face a vermilion dream so ethereal so divine time is out nothing is in where to begin I'm a coward much to my chagrin with each glance I cower and don't know how to begin I'm a fiend a drunkard a fool for your bitchery mired in misery eccentric and utterly blue there's nothing I can do It's futile I love you you're so lovely and I'm a fiend or something traveling thru shades of doubt roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out only empty recollections season that room roaming whatever mind whatever realm nothing's sacred beneath the helm
The Walking Aborted ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the realest word is pain motorists steeped in a traveler's brain easily annoyed an angry convoy death is the new porn awake reborn flowers wilt a blend with the earth come again what's it worth one sin dancing strangers temptation danger flawless whores with no reason to entertain spotless floor just come again does the orgie end and amid this lunacy fools on passenger trains feasting breeding searching for something without this heaven is nothing eager road is dust full blown towering tunnels a vast cemetery and liberation never known enter the civil forest examine contemplate and complain wisdom is the silent chorus accept relate and remain sane some things can't be explained maybe outer space is god slamming a door in our face forgotten beings maybe we've been misplaced rejected or snorted Maybe we're the walking aborted
The Purpose of Genes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ no one knows why we dream only that we're here for the purpose of genes that are carried on by expedient lives unable to crack the enigma of minds so lost w/out a clue we feast breed and die polish our statues and ponder the sky dying with every subtle hue slowly progressing experimental beings smothered by reality eaten by oneself a feast of finality maybe some day we'll attain immortality some say inconceivable never who'd want the burden of living forever imagine the boredom of a two-hundred-year bender lost with depression tired of being high sedentary sighs and ultimate surrender it would be too much for even the most devout pretender give me a muse a reason to read to write and to be confused the numbing pain of unattained love outshines ample tranquility if only it doesn't kill me we're all so alone numbing the pain so tired and stoned counting the days beneath gods on hour glass thrones I want to go home but I'm carried on by easy lies as colors travel thru my eyes bored with my sins restless depression sighs forget suicide for far greater uncertainty resides death nothing's more perverse don't get any worse but life is the real trip trying not to slip and go cascading down like an overzealous clown atop a burial mound I love life there's nothing more than this only a promise of bliss could be grandeur may be worse mere dregs of the universe trying to rise above the rabble a performer spewing useless babble trying not to unravel I hate the drive but love to travel
May River Madness ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a fire burns between a circle of fiends bedazzling eyes descending from a sky of strange stars the river's mouth gaped senseless deranged rapidly sparks fly embers lie and reflections linger unchanged souls swirling in the night fools jousting at stars so wishful so bright
Moments to Minds to Madness ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ got my shoulders don't need wings a morsel of knowledge is all I bring so senseless so blind so ethereal so divine this yearning I can't define these thoughts embody all that's mine an existence so lost in mind searching for something that I'll never find tears descend from inclement eyes we're so trifling and skies never clear clinging to shards of life hardly residing here reflections on calm waters distorted by skipping rocks racing the clock another heart stops the functions of feeling thoughts reel and ideas are spilling to think an invitation to sink unknown moments to minds to madness a world abandoned full blown
Stone ~~~~~ we're just stones lying in a hollow all so alone lifeless we reign and rest unknown if only for tomorrow might we shed our bloody bones we're scarred by wisdom it reminds us that we're alive like playing with fire or running with knives for every living head thousands lie hollow for those who lie insane comes the burden of tomorrow for those who die in vain we cling to sorrow I want to be consumed by dreams and madness in motion the rolling of tongues and television screens
To Venture Alone ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to venture alone a single stone hurled into winds of anguish I can't surrender I'm a void with nothing to relinquish I'm a joke a trivial game I could be anything taking the lord's name in vain a muffled scream a mad dose of reality mere fragments of a dream I'm alive I'm dead the universe swirls in a severed head I'm safety I'm danger I'm your friend I'm the seedy stranger that sows the seed the shard and only remainder
Gale Sprinkle These are not (elegy) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The hands I want can heal the soulfruit of a thousand overripeskin bruises, undying loves, and endless losses. Can lift song from throats of marble, compose music that dares a hope thrilled future braided from the sounds of keening brakes, cornered rabbits, and dying birds. Hi, Ho, who’s for whistling in the graveyard? ***** These hands are not the ones I want, Stroking my hair, snagging In the silk of my tender hidden places. Holding the secrets of my sins, gently, in spite of their size His ring lies in a wooden box
Kelly Ann Malone Golden California ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dewy dusks of tangerine, these vivid, citrus skies. Silken hills of emerald green, like velvet to the eyes. Sequoia's on a mountain ridge are solid and unique. A rustic, creaky covered bridge above a frothy creek. The deserts with their thirsty dunes. The rim of southern lights. The blazing mid-day afternoons, and soothing, aloe nights. The oceans foamy, turquoise tides that stretch along the state. Where chiffon sand and surf collides, and seagulls congregate. The harbors with their ports of call. The wharves tucked by the bays. Its winter, summer, spring and fall, is worthy of our praise. The glory of Yosemite. The coast of Monterey. The population potpourri? a cultural buffet. This gate to the pacific sea, can surely cast a spell. Of this I'm sure most would agree? 'Where angels truly dwell.'
Comforts of Fear ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You are the murky film that coats my independence. Baptized in dread. Left matte and damp. Muscles of freedom stay weak from neglect. My deep inhale of contentment is halted by apprehension. I pick the skin around my fingernails until they are raw. The smoke from my cigarette stings as it infiltrates the open wounds. My jaw aches from constant clenching, in turn dwindling the stature of my teeth. You distract me from my life. Fleecing my destiny, one layer at a time. You run so deep in my veins, slowing the flow, consuming serenity. Yet I fear a cleansing transfusion. Comfortable, abundant fear. Oh, familiar anxiety. I can feel you. I can touch you. I know you are there.
Mortal Seasons ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Our graceful births in early hours, of perfect purity. Wrapped and cared for in the arms of fall's maturity. Supple skin, an agile wit. Our dreams are gently planted. Assuming one-day, when we've grown, our wishes will be granted. Balmy air and passions flame will generate our thirst. Fully formed and confident, but easily coerced. The subtle art of self-restraint, a lesson slowly learned. And in the heat of summer's day, eventually we're burned. Cooled tongues display control as autumn's mind evolves. Our ripened soul's complacency forgives and then absolves. Colder is the flesh of fall but deeper are the hearts. The fast approaching bitter chill as life's December starts. Cherished thoughts accumulate in winter's looming storm. And though our youth is all but gone, our memories are warm. Serenity lay just ahead. It waits for us to call. But first release our mortal ties to summer, spring and fall.
The Body Bag ~~~~~~~~~~~~ My usual drive to work was in progress. Streaming along the freeway, oblivious to others. Up ahead were the brake lights that threatened my prompt arrival to work. 'Another crash', I annoyingly thought. Slowly, the cars filed by a contorted wreckage, paying homage to a fallen motorist. My turn in the precession approached. The street was littered with pieces of windshield reflecting the sun as if someone had dropped a satchel of diamonds. Exhausted flares had become mounds of white powder, warning no one. There was no urgency. No edge. The Corner's van sat calmly with its back door ajar. A gentleman leaned sedately against the van inhaling a cigarette. Just past the vehicle sat the bag. Sable black, unzipped and occupied. I stared at death, with its stiff hand exposed. I envisioned the person within. A man, a woman perhaps? Opinions, secrets, fears, plans? Had they just washed their hair that morning, removing residue? Whose heart will be broken by the afternoon? There on the pavement lay the remains. I searched for other bags but found none. Officers nonchalantly investigated the scene. Blithely rolling an instrument around the parameter of the site. Gathering details. Documenting tragedy, like they had done a hundred times before. Turning death into a task. Estimating the decedents time of demise. Nothing personal. It's just a job. Professionals can tune out the impact of shock. I ached for this unknown corpse. Briefly connected to this soul. Someone's father. Someone's mother? Someone else's unspeakable grief.
We Wish ~~~~~~~ We wish there wasn't vanity to make us think we're whole. Or decomposing sanity upon a troubled soul. We wish the nights that turned to days would sound redemption's horn. Not view them as a pointless phase of darkness into morn. We wish that we'd seek out our worth, of which we all possess. Why does the sky and noble earth do little to impress? We wish that we'd stand up to fear and not remain distraught. We wish that holding courage dear was done without a thought. We wish when faced with angry wrath we'd always persevere. And choose the more forgiving path to keep our conscience clear. We wish for acts of selfless deeds. We wish for worthy goals. But first we have to plant the seeds Into our barren souls.
Penny Lee Pincher ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You live below affluent means, but oh the price you pay. You dine on hoarded cans of beans? three meager cups a day. Your bank account is quite secure. Your spending habits, slight. Your stocks consistently mature. Your fiscal outlook, bright. You're proud of what you have achieved, and gloat about your wealth. You scoff at warnings you've received about declining health. You claim your recent dizzy spells are simply from the heat? Oblivious to dying cells within your septic feet. You over-draw your heavy drapes, but never your accounts. You stack your remnant foil scrapes in equalized amounts. Your bloated cash portfolio increases without pause. As does your swollen belly grow, with little thought to cause. You've bleeding gums and painful joints and buttocks with a rash. But ailments are minor points compared to healthy cash. Then one day trouble did arise? you fell and broke a bone. But no one heard your feeble cries because you lacked a phone. You lay there on the chilly floor, as blood drained from your hip No rescue party at the door? no one to see you slip You gather leafy mounds of cash and place them at your side? you stuff the bloody, open gash with dollar bills and pride. But you could not coagulate and died with ample means. Your body in a bankrupt state from eating only beans.
Just Luscious ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Your coldness does not trouble me. I'll not pay heed to chill. Deliciousness is what I see. You tempt and charm and thrill. The taste of you upon my lips, is caramel coated glee. You place yourself upon my hips, and linger, happily. You care not of my bulging thighs. We never fuss or fight. You're joy, wrapped in a sweet disguise. You keep me up at night. 'Tis ecstasy, our sacred tryst. Just you and I as one. Your creamy peaks I can't resist. Our romance, just begun. I dream of you, I'll not deny. Seduce me without pause. I'll shout it on a mountain high, I love you, Hagen Das!
K.S.Subramanian New Tribe ~~~~~~~~~ On soft mattress strut folk in pink of youth, with smug brow; eyes glued to the net, ever awake to the vistas titillating here and now. A chip on shoulder, they walk as if the world is under their feet; table talk spiced with right lingo smile a credit card for business talk, proud of the halo of the elite, they've all the trappings of a star; a vendor`s haggling on the street has not the sheen of this suave war; Holy Mary! Hail the entry of the new tribe, All’re gilt-edged, not the least bribe.
A windless cell ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Beneath the dark tunnel of mind, lurks the shaft of light, they say; An intuitive feel for it, a la smell of a rose, keep dark thoughts away. I look back at the days in a bind talent left to choke in a windless cell, genies growing in a miasma of venom, all for a few more coins, survival; Restless as flies against the pane, eyes seeing yellow for blue warm, back withered by unending abuse, manacled in the world of pettiness. At the end of a eventless travel, beatific light makes'em shrivel.
Laura Stamps THE ART OF SUBTRACTION ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My youngest cat jumps to the windowsill, three rubber bands dangling from his tweezer-teeth, and even though these chewy hoops are his favorite toys, after a moment or two, gnawed and useless, they'll drop to the carpet forgotten, as he dashes away on the mahogany balls of his feet. When I released the burden I had carried for a lifetime, healing required emptiness for a season, to be scrubbed clean as a teacup, allowing the sun to bake my slick ceramic sides, learning to delight in the hollow husks of eggshells, bird nests, and watermelon rinds. But one day the wood thrush graced that windswept space with its sapphire song, and the divine liniment of love rushed in like ruffled waves at high tide, salving the nubs of wings budding beneath my shoulder blades, while clouds spackled the sky's cathedral ceiling, and crows wheeled from tree to tree, star-dazed, weightless, free.
THIS ISN'T A POEM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ about the black bear that roams New Jersey neighborhoods with her cubs in the summer- time, splashing across backyard swimming pools like three ebony satellites and climbing porch railings as easily as evergreens, but it could be. Instead, it is Tuesday, and my energetic cat rolls on the floor, wrestling with a gym sock, wrapping it around her head, stopping at last to nap on her back, the sock an ivory veil covering her face, convincing the dark lake of her stocky body that it is as fully hidden as if she were a black bear wintering in the dimmest cave.
IT'S THE SECOND WEEK ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ of August, and almost noon, when a tropical storm, burbling up from the Gulf, churns across the midlands, the trembled sky burning black as charcoal, causing the streetlights to flicker as if it were midnight. Later, after blustering clouds christen the city with a coronation of rain, I sit at my window, watching two stray kittens from the pinewoods gulp the food I place in the moss and wild grass every day, their eyes startled by a blue jay and the waving gloves of leaves. Through- out the years, how many cats have wandered into the ferns and clover-laced fields of my soul? Too many to count, I'm sure. Meanwhile, the mother lounges behind the kittens, her eyes glowing like copper coins tossed in a murky well, as she rolls back and forth among lichens and chickweed; grooming her onyx face; glorying in cerulean skies, her growing kittens, and whatever blessings the day might bring.
Steve Klepetar Clumsy ~~~~~~ "Shipmates, have ye shipped in that ship?" Moby Dick, Chapter XIX Clumsy, I stumble against rags of this world. Thick fingers sparkle to a hungry sound, at least a hundred lonesome guitars. I have listened to singing kings, hailed them at dusk, wandered home through drunken streets of dawn. All night I have roasted flesh, scent and smoke rising in prayer to starlight, a billion pinpricks in the cushion of night. Who will eat with me? Who will cut charcoal steaks, watch hot blood well and sluice in blade grooves? Who will stare through wavy lines of gray heat? Who will promise to love the feast with me? When will our ship set sail? Whose captain winds through back alleys tonight? Whose eyes burn? How long before we feel swells roll, our feet pacing wooden decks? How long before we hail our ghosts out on the purple wet bosom of sea? Tonight we eat peppers and laugh between our limes, sit al fresca in warm air, pretending not to smell salt or fish or mines.
Doubt ~~~~~ I doubt the storm's cold eye watches boardwalks split, or waves splinter chunks of beach to yawning gaps of sand. I doubt that such a cobalt eye would wink its heavy lid or weep to life great tidal pools. I will not trust in the fertile rage of moss nor the fiery wrath of worms. I distrust any union of fish and stars. From where I stand, heels dug into night with cloud and moon, no sailors touch the ground, no whales hurl sweet songs over black mass of sea. Horizons disappear into glimmering fog. Mist becomes rock dissolving into foam. I doubt the marriage of squirrels and mice, having crawled through narrow hideouts searching with my bleeding hands for napkins and gifts. Not one soul has burrowed deeper toward the taproot of oaks. With dark and doubting eyes I have never seen phantoms rise in the shadow flame of love.
Ghosts in Love ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We skim across Bluefish Pond, a couple of Jesus bugs- ectoplasm filaments stretched, snapped in long, thin coils. We can do this now, we can hold hands, reveal ourselves as passionate faces glimpsed above cattail and reeds. We lick moisture from humid air. Even dead we suffer pain. When we want to let them, our bodies glow. We penetrate the moon. Sometimes our eyes peer out through its pale globe, side by side, staring out toward brilliant splash of stars. We assume the form of owls apparitions with white wings stretched in moonlight, grim red eyes. Never alone, we circle dark pines, bob into your headlights, her face, mine two stabs of terror seconds before dawn.
Harbinger ~~~~~~~~~ Oh Angel, your return to Heaven's gate Has filled our hearts with joy and soothed our souls. We welcome you, for now the hour is late. How tired you look, and in what sorry state, As if your tender feet had trod on coals. But now you've safe arrived at Heaven's gate. What horrors brought from Earth must you relate To us, whose names are written on the scrolls? Please let us rest, for now the hour is late. What story etched in blood, what dreadful fate Has turned those lovely eyes to empty holes? Do you stand weeping here at Heaven's gate? Do you bring warning that the price of hate Has grown so high and cost such mighty tolls That we must act, for now the hour is late? How blind our blessed lives to such grim state, Like rabbits in a warren, or like moles! But Angel, your return to Heaven's gate With tears of blood, I hope is not too late.
Here Come The Tourists ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Here come the tourists with their florid guide. As usual they are out of time, out of place, a moving wall of flesh picking for bargains through the stalls of Hell. Prematurely middle-aged, they search for photo-ops, pose like souls in torment before the towers of Dis or lie on their bellies to poke lenses deep into a fiery shaft. Some wear tee shirts that read "I Abandoned All Hope at Mephisto's Inn." They purchase necklaces strung with frozen tears, sample chocolates with bubbling hot centers of lava red. Dangerous cafes offer strong, smoky tea in souvenir cups twisted by demons into the shapes of eyeballs or tortured hands. Later they will cue up for rides in Charon's boat, each clutching a penny for the fare (though rising overhead has made the cost closer to ten dollars, all included in the modest package tour) and how they will gasp when their living weight rocks the craft and poisoned waters of Acheron, Lethe or Styx splash at their broken-in shoes. And now they watch with terrified glee as their bills, in mock agony, burn, and curl, and writhe like snakes.


Stephen D. Rogers


A large exploded view
Shows hundreds of parts
The thirty-two page booklet
Includes fourteen languages
All of which seem foreign to me

Arranging the pieces
On the floor by length
I create a work of art
Unable to explain what it means


There's a department
Furnished with surplus desks
Refurbished equipment
And retired employees
Where words are turned in
Words lost in translation
And sold from this office
As scrap


We walk the lonely beach
Discussing our future
Stuck in the past
Gulls screech and swoop and scratch
The tide sighs with every breath


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

  Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the
  Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
  of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
  Ygdrasil on the Internet at: 

    * WEB: http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/ 

    * FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/

    * USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines,
              alt.centipede, alt.ygdrasil, alt.ygdrasil.film

    * EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version 
         and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed 
         7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced 
         version.  These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a 


  . 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

  All books are on disk and cost $10.00 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: $5.00 an
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  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
  these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

  YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2004 by 
  Klaus J. Gerken.

  The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's 
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