YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

Aug 2006

VOL XIV, Issue 9, Number 162

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson

European Editor: Moshe Benarroch

Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Pedro Sena

ISSN 1480-6401



   Guido Monte

      AHA n.3: gwyrlen (garland)
      AHA n.2 : burel


   Charles Frederickson
      Why do THEY hate US?
      American XS Overindulgence

   David Sparenberg 

   Richard Lung 

   Alison Eastley 
      Her Laughter A Tickle
      The Woman With A Thick Black Luxurious Moustache 
      Hospital Corners

   Felino Soriano
      August Occurrences #34
      August Occurrences #35
      August Occurrences #36

   Christopher Barnes

   Marie Rennard
      Night wears apace,
      Roses never blossom on dry rainbows
      Sharps and flats on the wave
      A dreamer
      She could hold the moon in her hands
      Everything has to go to an end.
      I could see her in the circle of light



   Guido Monte
      Aha n.4:  the end


Guido Monte

AHA n.3: gwyrlen (garland)
 Sappho, Halewy, Neher, d'Olivet, Swinburne

1 (phaisi dé pota Lédan uakinthoi
2 pepykádmenon euren oion -
3 et la terre existait tohu wabohu...)
4 God: 'ayyekkâ?'
5 Man : "hinnenî, mais je n'espère pas
6 dead winds' and spent waves' riot "
7 God : 'sed etiam Nomen meum 
8                 intra ossa tua serva,
9           sed etiam Nomen meum
10 intra rahamin frementes tuas serva - 
11 y esperad todavia' 
12 Man : "mais je n'espère pas"

[(once Leda was said to find
an egg inside the blue bells -
 and the land was left barren...)
God 'where are you?'
Man "here I am, but I don't hope,
dead winds' and spent waves' riot"
God 'and still keep my Name
inside your bone,
and still keep my Name
inside your stirred up bowels -
hope a little longer'(vi>
Man 'but I don't hope' ], 

                          AHA n.2 : burel
           Paradise lost (Milton), Tristia (Ovid) ,my babbles (me)

in the beginning, out of Chaos,
nihil est nisi mortis imago
           only death's faces
no light, but rather darkness visible

sed inter tenebras the mind...
in itself can make
 a heaven of hell,
                  a hell of heaven

orbis ultimus  here it's the last world,
  the palpable obscure
et quocumque and everywhere
the void profound of unessential night

et for evil only good, eu cad
where all life dies, death lives
into the heart of an immense burel...
a  black dungeon                                

through the void immense to search
with wandering quest a place foretold
being covered with darkness
and tears that would not fall

and Parcae: the new age was asked a change...
everybody, everything, you, I,   all that exists 

Charles Frederickson

Why do THEY hate US?

US versus THEM bombastic confrontations
Mucky environment pitting drastic extremes
Absolutely good versus relatively evil
Pure white abysmal black dichotomies

Divisive hypocritical double standard contradictions
More farcical tragedy than strategy
Think tank running on empty
Losing side out of gas

Globe neatly divided into categories
Perceived adversaries or feckless friends
No neutral ground sinking quicksand
Where wronged left is right

Warped false truths destruction bent
Unintended consequences facing innocent victims
Intimidation humiliation desperation root causes
Poverty versus greed hapless powerlessness

Violence begetting more senseless violence
Dichotomy between enlightenment and darkness
Lunar phase disk half illuminated
Counterfeit promises passing the buck

Avenging angel creating worldly hell
Haloes versus horns derisive put-downs
Does black-and-white color blindness represent
Moral clarity or sheer madness?!

TICKING TIME BOMB ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If lies got any more Honest they'd be unbelievably surreal Cooked up tenderized suet concoctions Swallowing leftover false truths whole Queasy bellyache acute gastric distress Pain in the assumed guilt Feigned innocence oaths committing perjury Grievous sin justifications rarely convince Blowtorch peeling off hypocritical layers Faded enamel coating chipped away Spitfire outburst restraint on hold Tamperproof matters of fact verified Battened down hatches dire straits Disjunctive thoughts hiding behind mendacity Nebulous guarded self gone overboard Caution stumbling over consequential fibs Memory's fixative loosening firm grip Opaque fabrications slipping into oblivion Trust growing impatient misled astray Credibility gap teetering on edge
American XS Overindulgence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mythical American invincibility manifest omnipotence Precipitated undertaking ill-conceived crusader missions Blowing democracies up demolishing infrastructure Afterwards spending trillions for reconstruction God doesn’t only bless America Granting exclusive VIPer preferential status Nor does paramount military confer Moral invincibility unconscionable abusive depravity Capricious bullyragging pious self-righteous warmongers Intent on full spectrum dominance Nowhere on e-earth where fearsome Washington DCeption doesn't rule Supreme Gamester fantasy of American invincibility Shatterproof illusions shot to Hell On baseball diamonds basketball courts Dream Team all-stars lost glitter Tax cuts for least needy Social insecurity health scare powerty Obese fast food junkies suing Vested interest mega-corporations for overeating Planetization envisions borderless interconnected wwworld Spreading unity by encouraging diversity Taking principled stand for humanity Same colored lifeblood environmentally integrated Suffering from rhymetoid authoritis cramps Chip write-off sluggish righter block Pensive thinking fountain lite-rate flow Rhetoric fever know holds barred
David Sparenberg NEW REIGN OF TERROR ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The bullet from the terrorist gun, manufactured anywhere in the industrial world, has your name on it. Sometime during your life time, it may end your life. End you without warning. When the bullet rips into your flesh, it will already be stained with the blood of others murdered before you. But this is Russian roulette. At some point, your number is up. The terrorist's car bomb, aggressively thirsting for the blood of your children, will again explode. At denonation, the razors of shrapnel, flying like butcher's knives throught the viscid sweetness of honey, through soft tissue of butter, will bear, with flaming metals of hatred's heroes, the DNA of other kids, dismembered before your own. Perhaps of those on the second school bus? The bus that went the detour and reached the intersection at the moment of settling a score. There can be no doubt that humanity is a family in crisis. The Earth is in crisis too. There can be no doubt that hatred is spreading faster than love, fueled by the black liquid apostles of reptitian memories. Will we go down as victims of the dinosaurs' revenge? There can be no doubt that we are going down. But what the hell! What the hell, I say. Other generations have suffered through boils and bouts of plaguing madness. Yet we continue to appeal to somehting outside of ourselves. As if there were some public conscience after the individual witness has been dismissed. The Death Squads of state terrorism are out hunting. Worse than a pack of maurading wolves, they are ever on the lookout for a fresh kill. For someone to rip and tear and sink their sharp teeth into. If they have not yet reached you, don't feel secure, don't relax; don't think that you are forgotten. Believe me, you are not forgotten. In an hour before dawn, you can hear then (listen!) pouinding on the door of a stranger, on one street over from your own, somewhere at a distance, in the country of oppression, in the land of occupation. Where bodies are routinely dumped like sacks of garbage. When they reach your house--because who dares to call any place the safety of a home?--they will drag your family from sleeping beds. Some will be shot then, while other wait and are forced to watch. This is not time to be a woman, with that hollow jewelry tucked between the thighs. Certainly this is no time to be a child, unless a child is born blind. When the satan's fire devouring the sky; and yes, the sky if falling and yes, there is a progressive, unfolding apocalypse in pandemic slow motion-- such and such an hour in Iraq, such and such a time of death in Dufar; when the hell fire and brimstone tick-tock down like decimating excrement from a screaming fighter jet, marked with the insignia of a terrorist nation, don't pretend that you are waiting for a late arriving starship to wisk you away to another gallaxy. Don't start making excuses. That falling fire is planning a barbeque and you too are invited. Even should you refuse your invitation, your refusal will not be accepted. Do you really believe that when death burns down from heaven the arsonist cares who is on the ground? But tell me, since you are likely fond enough of animals roasted, how do you think human flesh smells through the chimneys of history, or when grilled on a highway stretching half way across a radioactive desert? What is the odor of burn offering? Of holocaust of civilians--colaterial damage? There can be no doubt that what the political bosses tell us about terror, terrorism and terrorists--that they have no conscience, no boundaries or borders and can and will strike anywhere from anywhere, day or night--that all of this true. And that the truth is damning. Does this then mean that a truth seeking is a terrorist? Or whoever joins the games loses by the exacting nature of the game? Does this condition render the odd man out, the peacemaker, no better than a daydreaming fool? Go and make peace with yourself, if you believe in the power of confession! When there was something you could have done, you did nothing. When it still did not touch you, skin for skin, as the adversary sneeringly says. You know, even a democracy, turned to empire, with its head screwed backward and regugitating the propaganda of possession, can excuse the terrorist tactics of torture and mass murder. And you know too (or do I really need to remind you?) that the one thing that all victims have in common is silence. Terrorists fornicade with the whore of silence, birthing Legion and genocide into the world. And there can be no doubt that this is a time of cursing, an age of violence, a new reign of terror, when catastrophy compounds catastrophy. And the death count is broadcast in the daily news. But what the hell! What the hell, I say. Other generations have suffered and survived their nightmares of psychosis. And since the messiah has already come and gone, leaving us instead with cadres and battalions of heavily armed men, who is there to turn to to drive the devils out? If the defining choice of complicity has not yet reached you--to join one camp or another, or to continue as a designated target of any and all--wait, your choosing will not forsake you. It is coming around. The darkness is descending. How hard everywhere is the fall; how harrowing the grisly howl! Terror stretches out in every direction. It hunkers down in the unknown and drinks the cold sweat of fear. There can be no doubt that we are all in the valley of the shadow and evil is no stranger to us. Only we are with a psalm. Our eyes are wild with anxiety. Our hearts beating so hard they are about to explode. 28 June 2006
CRUCIFIED CHILDREN ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hezbollah Lebanon Israel Santa Maria Jesus our Angel Song of a Human Virgin Madonna Red Rose White Lotus Crown of Thorns Field of Crosses Mohammed Mouthpiece Tongue of Apostles Father Abraham Moses of Commandments Lord of Thou Shall and Thou Shall Not... throughout the world we are the blood- crucified children small in these faces mothered as orphans withered while tender husks in our greenenss see--we are bleeding San Angelo, little San Angelo child of burned wings hurried to heaven Jesus the Martyr Red Rose White Lotus Lilly of Crosses stained with the murderous Crown of Thorns throughout our life times we are the tattered tattered and torn pray for us often tonight and tomorrow soul's in hell's ovens flaming madonnas Seal of the Prophets Fire of Apostles slaughtered and slaughtering Moses forsaken Rachel forlorn Jesus Jesus a Manchild hanging eternal our Mother of Ashes martyring angels small in these faces Abraham - Abba in the bloodbath of lambs O Santa Maria! Santa Maria! Lord of our grieving; Lord of those taken. Sarah the Childless Mary the Virgin Mary conceiving Hagar now pregnant woman a moonscape man in his dust Moses a seraph Jesus-Mohammad Mohammad the Voiceless Jesus the Scapegoat nailed to men's evils O Santa Maria! Son of a Daughter Mother of Sorrows Cross of Blood Roses crucified children weeping White Lotus pray for us human now and hereafter pray for us often O momma momma Maria!
DOVECOTE & TOWER ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the old dovecote of peace that no one visits, the white dove of serenity sits with wounded face--and weeps. In the pure blue sky, far above the dirty clouds, swept together by human greed, the white swan of the worlds first dream wings toward her father's embrace--and weeps. Weeping in a voice that is a woman's voice. No one listens. In the white stone tower, housing dusty webs and bleary shadow; with its glassless windows like blackened eyes, facing where the fields once were and fruitful orchards; hides the world's first homeless sigh. Weeping like a frightened child. A child who is abandoned --and hungry. Nowhere on the roadways are there angels. Nowhere between stars and distant planets. In the ancient dovecote, hearts of our eldest lie broken. On the tower, the walls drip red with blood. Between truth's shadow and time's tension; between dread lightning and crule thunder; a naked child, forlorn and slender, runs toward her lifeless mother. Nowhere on the roadways are there angels. Who could tell the difference if there were.
MASS FOR A GREEN MILLENNIUM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Earth, eat me, as you would the small wild daisy. For I bear the suffering to be beatitude in the flesh of humankind. Water, drink of me, as you would the honest tears of rain. For I bear the shame of many lives and life times. Air, pray for me, as you would each particle of light. For I am in much need of forgiveness. And wrongs I have not done do not excuse wrongs I have ignored-- from lonesome heartbreat and inflicted hunger to the wasting of innocent life. Fire, receive me into the body-flame of your universal church, that I may be worth of the sun, or sun-spark, of immortality. And view, even in the shade of my branching and leafing tree, the flowering shadow of my immaculate soul. Dream, takes these dancing bones, wash clean, and cast them into the river of eternal play. You four or five guardians of space and place, assist me; I am vulnerable in willed simplicity. Even though I cannot be as you are, before my gathering again into the dust of atomic recurrence, yet I can do as you do: bear seed and see cycles through to fruit, dissolve and flow, be brisk, open handed, easy hearted, float, and burn with a love that gives without asking what will be given back. Too many live from greed; greed is their root. We know the Earth hurts. Blood cries against blood's letting. Let this offering be little recompense; my reward no more than humility. And the courage to offer humbly again, and again and again. 5 May 2006
SHARING THE ROAD ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You have not been here only. I have been here too, living beside you. Walking the walk. Sharing the road. These are my hands. Look at them. Once the hands of a child, now those of a man. My hands, like all other hands, grow old. They are weathered with work; they are creased with story lines. By my hands have opened often to the embrace and caress of love. Yet they have clenched, far too often, because of injustice and the spikes of pain. Or even an error in judgment. These are my feet. They have earth-traveled the longest mile in the dew-grass of seasons of spring; in flower fields through suns and moons, fragile, tender, fragrant of summers. In the play of autumn leaves; crisp, rustling rainbows touching ground; and the solemn purity of winter snow. Far too often my feet have grown calluses, my soles hardened by pavement laid down lifeless, like the laws of attrition of ungrateful men. Men and women much the same as us, who believe in greed and selfish ambitions. But who name their ambitions "progress" and their greed call "a right guaranteed." This is my chest. Behind the skeletal frame and living flesh, my heart beats. Even as the heart of the Earth, beneath the Earth's skin of colors. This Earth is not a white man's ghost. She is a tawny woman, brown, or sometimes black, or in some places red, and fertile. Earth is a not a slave to be worked to death, a whore to be tought and sold. Earth is Mother. Do you honor her? Here are my eyes. Eyes that have seen near and far. That have looked on hunger, joy, sorrow, on the hell of destruction through madness, on the heavens of freedom through trust. On the blessing of birth. On the crimes of war. These eyes of mine keep looking, as years condense into memories, searching still for peace. Peace. A garden for an earth-walker God. A promise. A dream. These are my lips. My fingertips are raised to touch them, pulsing in sun-heat, wet when it rains. Lips that have spoken, tasted and kissed. That have shouted bitterness and blasphemy. That have whispered sweetness and intimacy; choked on ugliness, sung for mercy. That babble wildly or smile sublime. My mouth... mouth that knows the truth of breathing. That my soul has taught to cry out in lamentation and to recite in the hallelujah of adoration. That my heart; the dancing primitite that never stops beating the red drum of poetry of life; instructs in the the language of simplicity and in the power of forgiveness. Do you forgive me, as I forgive you, in our negligence and estrangement? Here I am. This presence is me, the all of me. Yesterday, getting here. Today, being here. Tomorrow, arriving still. What has been, is, and what may be. Becoming; being human. My self, my self betrayal, my ambiguity. You have not been here only, no. No you haven't. I have been here too living beside you. Walking the walk. Sharing the road. Going my part, at my pace, going my way of the pilgrimage, through this living place. Surely you must love as I do? Is that now why we are here together, even in synocaption? Surely you must forgive? Earth is the one home, even if only in the one moment. Do you love the one moment? Do you see me now, as I see you? As I break the pride of my knees, like the fear of a nation, a race, a generation, a religion, kneeling in prayer. We are here! Here between stones, earth-bones, and stars, galaxies of discoveries; between temporal crucifixion, choices and eternal communion. Dust of the road, smelling of ancestors, species and mortality--and friendships shared, recognitions, these are our only possessions. All else that is spoken of is idleness, isolation, illusions. Like bubbles on the surge of froathing ocean. Like mirages in the deserts of dishonesty. Not even solitudes that guide toward oases. But more so fearsome, fearful spaces of despair and desolation, where demons prophecy and men disguise themselves, diminish, die, as hostile and alone. Walk the walk. Share the road. Do not be ashamed to share the truth. No one of us is bigger than the boundaries of humanity, not even by the casting of a giant shadow.
Richard Lung LUNATIK ~~~~~~~ Where the moon-sized blur of Hyakutake in all that firmament of frozen flakes? The misted moon took on an earthly smear in the reeling sickness of a fox run to earth, or the stricken deer. "The moon looks a bit off-color but where the blazes is the comet?" I reflect, the Grand Lunar eclipsed not half so much as my benighted homage arrested at the crime of this apocalypse.
GRUB STREET ~~~~~~~~~~~ The bridge of the car roof is under a lake of dew that sports looping wakes from which are made the legends of monsters. Kiddies' fingers follow the squigglers' puzzle trail, like a Chinese plate from in to out of the garden gates. Who is, or what, the anonymous author of these frolic signatures? Doing press-ups on a train of stumps, a paper dragon rears uncoiling humps' hooped ribs that storey the pagoda snout of a rocket stage, shed, flying out at its Ygdrasil, to again be sustained on leafings, for gentle re-entry.
ZONDIK SPEAKS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Turbulence strip-teased the air blue then white and back, dark red. The fluorescence dropped into the aura of James Cook from Runcorn, 1957. He hears himself bid: "Come aboard. Jump, dont step, on the ladder, the ground is damp." In the brilliant entrance, he was told: "Take off your clothes. Put on plastic over-alls. This craft's electric field wont work well in damp atmosphere and not at all in outer space." He steps into a further craft with a score of giant hominoids from the planet Zondik in an unknown solar system: "The inhabitants of your planet will upset the balance of the universe if they persist in using force instead of harmony =2D- warn them of the danger." 'But no-one will listen to me,' Cook pleaded. "Or to anyone else..," the space-man snapped. Cook's ship's no lecture tourer, no red light area. Under the blue lamp, he tells his tale, before going back to a quiet life. "CFlying Saucer Review" finds burnt left hand-back, he forgot to remove from the ladder, before his feet touched the moist earth. ( Sources. Len Ortzen: Strange Stories of UFOs. Paul Devereux: Earth Lights. )
Alison Eastley Her Laughter A Tickle ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Psyche paces the floor. Alone in the dark silent accusations fall like icy water. Psyche wants to know why the woman's laugh tickles the man's idea this is not a joke. They talk in a lowered voice about this day and that night the man and woman play. You'd think Eros would fly on home instead of the space between the bed where Eros elbows in, digs the man and woman in the ribs, his famous bow and arrow thrown under the bed.
The Woman With A Thick Black Luxurious Moustache ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ doesn't have a place in the story. She was shoved in one Saturday early in the afternoon when he said he'd like to take her to bed, then added, out of courtesy only if she felt amenable that is, would she mind if he undressed her in natural light, her hand on his shoulder as he bends, slips off her jeans after she lifts her arms for him to remove the top half of her clothes and then of course, he holds her hand and what follows next depends how bad her back is. Sometimes she's passive to avoid what happens every morning. She doesn't want to talk how much it hurts so she questions without him knowing the answer is beauty less the conventional pick of what a woman is. He's attentive and kind and he says, a woman with intelligence, keen insight, a woman who wants to know who the hell he is is sensual if she happens to have what he can't describe except to opine the word mystery will have to do and not only that, her mystery has to be held at first sight, then discovered to be deep. So deep possibilities take flight when he says a hairy woman, say, a woman with more hair of her chest than him is OK. And when he imagines a woman with a thick black luxurious moustache he says he may consider a hint or two regarding removal. As for clothing, a woman can wear whatever she chooses as long as these questions aren't about her because he enjoys looking when she tempts him to remove that pretty green top. The fabric reminds him of India and because the cotton is thin, perfume escapes the same way her hair falls on his face when she sits on top of him. He's never been to India even though he knows Ganesha is an Elephant god and if he was forced to choose a religion he'd be a Hindu and if he was a Hindu, he's have to wash his feet in the stinking river where the risk is rife. And this is what it is like. The pain in her back has her searching for compromise she imagines an Indian bride in bold red would wear in a portrait shot in a book about beauty found in ordinary places.
Hospital Corners ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The scent of wind stays in sheets pegged to the washing line. Small leaves from a nearby Camellia blow in her hair while she stands, removing the sheets and carrying them, her hands as neat as the habit of tucking the bottom sheet into hospital corners from the time she worked as a nurse and now, after four winters, each one different and each one the same slow ache. She thinks winter doesn't change, that the frost on the lawn will never thaw. Frozen despite the chicken vindaloo piled on jasmine rice steaming the kitchen window like as a half remembered dream. She eats. She drinks. She swallows a slow release tablet of white morphine, turns off the lights before lying on her back, her hands by her side because if they covered her breasts, her arms across her chest it would look as if she's waiting for mourners instead of another cold morning that isn't bad and isn't sad. It isn't normal either. It's chronic as nurses take their evening meal in the hospital canteen where they can talk in private before returning to check wounds, gently cleaning suture-lines with normal saline which has the same amount of salt as tears. It doesn't sting. It often feels warm and kind, different than a pinched nerve causing numbness or pins and needles, loss of balance. Falling to the floor, her body contorts while she waits until it's safe to walk tentatively to bed resting between the scent of wind and dead Camillia leaves.
Felino Soriano August Occurrences #34 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I held breath closed eyes descended decaying stairways leading below to pier's precious non-decaying colors, inhaling indigo within waves' crashing, oncoming cold. Pasted across a dark brown pole pounded with salt’s thick season, a starfish, fresh, pallid in its vocal image, its calling toward my shivering due to temperature drop beneath shade’s argument with sun. This starfish adorned with clusters of crystal, with offerings of dripping seawater, did not attempt escape from my eager, naïve hands, hands that have never clutched this form of aquatic beauty beneath pier's guarding body.
August Occurrences #35 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Unable to be shapeless, faithless clouds climb human implanted barbed, spiked, fenced-in pastures of imagination, guarded heavily by obese monsters of the orchestrated and fake. Unable to be shaped until the intellect willingly adapts to the shaping faithful, often forgiving for being forgotten clouds congregate across eyes, epiphanies open even wider the once closed aggravated blundering existence to newness, to never-before, the silvery, slivering rain descending atop the forehead.
August Occurrences #36 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The wooden hallway of my dead maternal grandmother’s wood and brick handmade home holds golden frames of black and white photos of family and friendships. The wooden hallway, the long path of distress from dragging, dependent footsteps requires adequate stopping and sobbing: death in open eyes, death in black in white, in this combination of developed film cannot hide the deceased. An infant cries. A great grandchild. This paradigm of pain, this evidence of young life revolves, will conclude in many centuries with a golden frame across a wooden wall.
Christopher Barnes FASHION SHOOTS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Shandi bowls along dragnet sands, sails a pose, anticipates. A foam bubble shatters. The cave is pumice. Armenians hula-hula. She who pursues drapes Chanel; Coco would have catapulted the tottery gulls.
WAR STAY-AT-HOMES ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In this village stitch-tattered girlies wrist their thin-fleshed unspanked children close. Memorial park rocks seem muscular, torsos; all men have gone.
THE PAN SCRUB GAME ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ From thickset specky windows he eye-balls the tough job warp and weft of the launchpad as it floats itself for the copter's sea-strip. Then the kitchen's remodelled - Tony bumps the eggbeater off its base buoying the bobblish sponge-backed slab, hosing it into the bowl to plane a cruddy pan.
HEALTH CLUB STEPS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's kill-time morning. Soolie and Joolz are pulsed by corrosives. Botox to steroid they knee-knock. It's a 'better sort' gathering place. Go on make eyes at them paddling the kerb-stone, striking elastic fits into the gutter. It's morning, kill-time.
WINDSCHEFFEL AND STRIDE'S DAY OUT ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tender-conscienced ones from Graybine Hospital's storms bounce into Summerly's Snax. There's rifts today. You have untingled the world through lithium, straggled, wished for filtered tea. A moderato's timbrelling (or a pomegranate wriggling at the ear). Ah sound!
DURING GENNERY AND POISON GAS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ News pools echo... boatels plunk limpet mines. Mr. Bhang, the mathematician, uncouples two twos. A tango swerves from wallflowers. Cockpit windows quash. Peewits twitch, liver, kidneys.
Marie Rennard Night wears apace, And I'm sitting A bit athwart On the inn's roof Grabbing the clouds. Down in the street An awry ox's wearing a tie Around its neck Just like a leash Hold by a poor sighted bald monk Astraddle drunk on its backbone And singing loud a bawdy song Arrant sort of philosophy But that's worth mine Maybe Cause it's raining The roof's sliding Clouds have, my Hell, Come to an end I mean the hand Of someone else And I'm going To break my skull On the cobbles Before the sun Makes red snoots shine And monks to snore.
Roses never blossom on dry rainbows When the water's over light also goes Who said roses need ground to grow They long for swaying fiddle bows And if their scent is so flimsy Elusive, and faints easily It's because they need a balance To dance. It's because too much of the light Heats to death early drops of dawn It's for when they feel sky's too high Or when equinoxes come down They hesitate, they fear the flow They don't know between breath and blow And when roses must bet for hope When they're only left a may spring They get dry, hanging off a string Like gardeners hang off a rope Head up, head down, and their eyes closed On fading colours of dreamland.
Sharps and flats on the wave Disputing the light and shadow And only seen When they're being watched at With a careful ear Moments of particles As imaginary As the dust in the sun So present to the eyes however As much As imperceptible Variations In a random design Of a could have been shape of tree Missing data Can fail a theory A missing note Can kill a symphony.
Welcome ~~~~~~~ Pale faces are glinting beyond electric blues Etherealities lightening on the screen Their sad shades of sad souls. Sometimes, a smile rushes a sinuous elsewhere Spreading through the brains web of the boys who gather A whole planet of loneliness Sharing flashy silent despairs Into random explosions of music Somewhere in their bellies All linked to the machine. Welcome to our world my boy You were not expected to be microprocessed I thought you were my flesh and blood Not my tears and sorrow I was hoping laughter, red flowers and green grass Showered with happiness hatching on your long lips And when I come across the sight of your night eyes I feel the weight of your unsleeping soul Wish you were a baby and we could start again.
A dreamer Is walking barefoot On the flowered side of the moon. His song echoes On the edge of a cloud Where a wild smiling crow's Calling upon south winds For a revenge of sands. A dreamer is walking Barefoot In dewdrops Reeling in the heavy perfumes Oblivious - Who smells flowers knows paradise And forgets about the devil. The crow's red eyed and in his tail Is rising a shiver of hate, And his malediction Now yells out open wings Spreading shadow Quiet and low enough For the dreamer to taste A blind last breath Of divine clover pinks, Before the moon is upside down.
She could hold the moon in her hands And play with the shadows of trees Wanderlust imaginations. Her laughter was pure energy Dark hair, dark eyes - as much as coal - And her white body was a dream Bathing in yellow circle light. -I was in love with a fairy - She could whip out with sight alone The boring face of real, Throw stones away to teach them how to fly And turn the reek of fear Into a bunch of scents Her walk was dance Her run was flight. I was looking at her, Wallowed on a large lily pad, Between two sighs Dreaming frogs' dreams.
Everything has to go to an end. This is true all along for daylight For love and for hatred, life and death For kids, so eager to grow up For dogs, barking for wanders in the grass For the rain, that falls into despair On cold grounds in winter For the songs we whisper in the dark of the night. Lovers believe they are seeking for truth They're eternal liars to their hearts and their cores Lovers just try to know the colours of relief Forget it's got an end as well as a delight Try to play everyday "if it were, if it were" If it were different, would lovers play it twice This game of I'm longing for sparkles in your eyes. Everything has to go to an end We all know, and all want to escape And love, hatred, kids, songs and wanders - If all the world was green- And crossed sighs, are no more than poor toys To play tricks to our minds or to play with belief To stand the idea we won't get a relief But just pain and just joy And wanders in the rain And the poisoning thought obnoxious certainty That in spite of the lies Everything, everything Has to go to an end.
I could see her in the circle of light Her waist held tight in a scarlet girdle Black ink and mercury Shining a flow into her eyes And the red of her lips softly kissing the glass. My brain was wandering Along her twisted hair To the nomadic curves Blooming under her skirt. The glamour of her skin Glinting cream in shadows All upward her long legs Made me feel Lascivious, filled with the lust of night. When she walked towards me Skimming over my breath I could smell the fragrance Of heaven melt with hell Fainting along my lips While she disappeared.
Duane Locke E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 86 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was, Was, The age Of the revived harpsichord, The cord of wood, Of the rediscovered carpets Of Thomas Jefferson, Blank spots worn by the press of his heels, Of the much exhibited annotated travel brochures Of Charles Darwin, And the age of Japanese jogging, and the search For arrow heads In Florida cypress swamps, A search that resulted in Local museums Being overcrowded With ancient empty oyster shells. It was the time that audiences stood in long lines At pop art lithograph shows to see Comic-strip dots becomes assertive While cardboard grow pale and fainted. At five o’clock in the afternoon, A sit-down comedian sat on the sidewalk With his arms folded in front of a tin cup Or the Holy Grail, Promised to tell jokes about egg yolks, Although the folded-arm, sit-down comedian Never Spoke. So, So, So, so, So.
E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 87 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her hair, shoulder-length, Beauty-shop gold twists, Was once Monumental Jerusalem columns, blow-dried Into aleatory spirals, Now post-modern para-styling Her hair, through manipulations of the hair stylist And the press Was transmogrified into having breath And a Heidegger annotation. The hair’s breathing was declared By a critic in New Haven To be the beginning Of a highway to truth That depends for its existence On a leap of faith, An arational, illogical outlook. Her hair’s breathing found a tongue, The tongue wriggled to articulate words. Her hair became an utterance, It spoke. My lips kissed The well-planned amorphous structure And disjunctive arrangement And heard A new found post-modern speech.
E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 88 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After I left The Buddhist monastery, I Continued my non-discipline approach To live by Non-determined concepts. With a yellow bell pepper In a window-pane sunlight On a purple and gold mat And with cognac in a blackish, opaque glass, I had a vision Initiated by the synchronicity Of a female cardinal Tapping On my glass door. I visualized Tristan Tzara wearing an opaque monocle Listening to The sound of popcorn popping in my Gold-trimmed black microwave oven. But I was not certain; Certainty is for cretins. It might have been Icarus in my kitchen, Thinking about How absurd and false Are the realities that people believe in. But it might not have been Icarus, It could have been Dr. Johnson, For I heard him say to Alexander Pope (It might have been Boswell): "A definer who circumscribes poetry By definition will only show The narrowness of the definer."
E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 89 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I walked on mud, Surface, greened with The covering of seeds, I felt the soft, shiny, moist dark mud Sink beneath my feet And touch my bare ankles, I was going nowhere; I felt emancipated From predetermined destinations, I felt freed from a belief In the consensual reality Of exterior stability. Then, out of nowhere, a Branch with Three yellow flowers on its tip Bushed against my forehead. I Saw A Damselfly--gold, ivory, segmented, body On a knob of blond bark. I no longer Felt an urge to Master or explain, The remnants Of frames and focuses That had enter me Unawarely, Become voids, Beautiful voids. I feel the joy Of being a circumstance, A circumstance Of a lost circumference, A lost center, A Lost Circle.
E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 90 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Cryptic Content, Dichotomies, Contradictions, Nothing resolved, No statements, No arguments, Even aporias Of a damselfly's eye, Its defamiliarization Impinged Upon my perception After Buddhist breathing, One-one, two-two, three-three, Now, I have suffused within An alternative aesthetic; Since I do not know what my aesthetic is, I am liberated, Emancipated, Consciousness-altered To write Fired by the knowing-not knowing, The ignorance-erudition of the mystic. I was freed from fashion, The formulaic rhetoric Of popular epiphanic writing, Deep images, symbolic Correspondence etc., their Commodification of the sacred For prizes, mistresses, and reputation. So I situate myself In a new realism, Have a new valorization, And not the realisms Cherished, admired, defended By the past.


Guido Monte

Aha n.4:  the end
(Eugenio Montale, Heraclitus, Guido Cavalcanti)

So che si può esistere
non vivendo,
tu epilanthanoménoy ei e odòs ághei

tanto è distrutta già la mia persona,
ch'i' non posso soffrire
(anápaula en tei phyghei) -

                                       la morte
mi stringe sì, che vita m'abbandona
ai psykaì osmontai cath' Aiden

[I know everyone can exist
without living
forgetting where the road leads 

so much I'm destroyed inside me
that I can no longer suffer 
(that’s the solace in exile) - 
death is so running short
                   that life deserts me,
while souls get a whiff of Hades below]

The author thanks Giusy Chirco,Tom Di Liberto and Viviana Fiorentino. 
The Sanskrit term “aha” embraces all the letters of the alphabet  in her 
depth, symbolically embracing  the whole universe.   


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