YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

October 2007

VOL XV, Issue 10, Number 174

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson

European Editor: Mois Benarroch

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

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena

ISSN 1480-6401



   David Sparenberg


   Matthew M. Wylie
      Sojourn Ni¤o's and The Klavier 
      On Entering 
      A Ritual 
      En Relojes

   Rehan Qayoom 
      Post-dinner Item
      Tomato Ketchup

   Joseph Veronneau 
      Blind Consent
      To Gain Back a Piece of What Was Lost

   Bishnupada Ray
      Taj Mahal
      Global Warming

   Corey King
      Helios is Mad (Dog Days)
      Weltall (Cosmos)
      Longing to Drink the Storm

   Felino Soriano
      Bareness Evaluates Existence
      Epiphanies are Specialized Vernaculars
      The Size of the Equation Was/Equivalent to Its Purpose
      The Trusting is Willing
      Within Reality, a Philosopher Documents Current Culture
      A Priori: Stilled Portrait
      The Unity of Curiosity
      Burgeoning Reality

   Gary Beck
      Culture Clash


   Maria Jacketti
      Blank Document


David Sparenberg


You explain it, in the eyes of a child, how children are born into this 
slaughterhouse world and here is hunger and war, here is neglect and pain, 
thirst and famine, hatred, crime and abandonment.  But a child is just a 
child, a miracle happening in a season of play.  But pain is bigger than 
children.  Fear is bigger. Wounds in the heart where blood paints heart 
shapes; mind blown skulls.  Death.

You explain that if a child can understand the inhuman, then I can understand 
how madness is a mother of children who breastfeeds nations and murder murder 
is a father's breath, casting shadows of phantoms...being men in armed 
uniforms...onto the hiding places, the secret treasures, the dream incubations, 
of God.

Child Faces.

But if a child can explain your, our, the adult explanation back to me, to us 
and still be a child, in the trance-dance of innocence, and look back at life 
with children's eyes, wide with wonder; images of a dove taking flight out of 
a palmed clod of clay or angel walking dream waters, being a fisher of 
salvation for drowning souls...for heavy malice is corruption, dry, the husk, 
the waste, the crown of thorns stabbing the heart and war the fires of hell; 
then I too will feel no pain, no pain or shame, outrage or despair, no, no, 
no, no agony or down in my bowels where conscience shudders gut wrenching 
convulsions of anguish and disgust (rebellion is the first man, is body 
first).  But I will conform too, compliantly shut up, be withered as well, 
normal and withdraw silent as stone when storms break over this earth of 
homelessness.  Rags of living refuse; refuge. Refugees.  O loaves!  O fishes!  
How vast the multitudes in the lands of possession where demons, devils, 
shape-shift into us! How overwhelming, brethren!

People, there is terror.  There is terror and terrorism.  There are armies; 
there are terrorists: legions, armies of terrorists.  There is horror. There 
are ghouls. There are monsters, psychotics, psychopaths, politicians, 
profiteers. War.  And there is Death.  Death unbound. DEATH in all caps. 
Death and children. Death as direction, death at horizons.  But a child 
a child would slip away, would sail off to find the Spirit House of God, 
where loved ones lay dreaming, where love is collectively asleep.  O Gautama!  

O Lord Jesus!  New baby Moses in a basket of trust on this plagued Nile of 
tears and trouble. Sorrows, brethren, sorrows!  Woe!  Now who's gonna save us? 
Who's gonna save us now, who slay the flesh of tomorrow?  Blood.  Ashes.  
Draught.  Howling...Dust. 

Darkness, brethren. Witness, brethren. Portents: Dark descending. Dread of 
dark. Savage sun setting, furious, over all the earth at one and the same 
hour. One and the same.

Come near. Prophesy. Explain infanticide, explain state sponsored crime.  
Marauding, wild dogs of Golgotha, the dog-men who chew bones of life, sacred 
gone mad, and the venomous swarm of our insects of war.  But you, you and I, 
verify soullessness.  Explain dare, tell it, clarify.  Turn genocide into a 
shape that will not haunt for generations.  What can, what does, it mean to 
say, as we stand apart, like statues of narcissism in death's garden of guilt, 
mute and surrounded by networks of mass graves?  To say Mass. To mouth words. 
Liturgy:  Child.  Elliot's Hollow Men.  Nietzsche's Last Man.  Go! Tell the 
betrayed of Africa: "The hyenas are praying.  The scavengers of slaughter are 
the gods of war."

Child of Darfur.

18-19 August 2007

Matthew M. Wylie

Sojourn Nino's and The Klavier 

The object of the children's song was how the piano surrounded them,
When they were restless and mercurial,
Waiting for redolent strangers to catch their backward gaze,
As each one agelessly cast eyes from the neck
Of our mothers and fathers.

Behind one, with a cyclopean satchel tied to her waist;
And mother, holding onto fresh, seasoned plums
the size of storied moons from long ago,
An onlooker connects.   

Without the song, or the remembrance of the sonatas,
the children would not have their first attempt at Memory,
and instead, would suffer the long, poetically neutral nights
of nymphs and river gods;
the tiger and leviathan.  

On Entering ~~~~~~~~~~~ I. Entering has always remained The easier of the two. When crescent odes are sang To chimera moons; forged with a symmetry only the most opaque and puerile forest can accurately reflect. Door - Lace Novel Mouth Inside In-between Zoo Museum Drunkenness Labyrinth Virgin Harlot Carriage Immortality - II. The rotunda in Spain, Where the panacea and soporific Caused so much awe and panic. (remember the minotaur?) The cathedral temples Where ideas of martyrdom First . . . The cinema house, Where you caught yourself in between the word and the light. (Apollonian acts and a Baroque Dionysus) An olive grove Next to where You were born and learned To sing "Laila Laila." The billet near the Dead Sea, Where you could no longer distinguish Between "garden," "library," "siesta," "blood." Along the castle valley next to your bed, Where junipers and peonies raise their walls To obstruct all ghosts and madmen From martyrdom.
A Ritual ~~~~~~~~ Already far from the canopy pride you have ventured too far, perhaps. Out of the reach of monks, lovers, and unhappy families, I wonder if you will be whole when you return? Or why, I have not heard you dance like the shadows that sing "Porqu‚ no me oye usted?" As through templates of dried stone, when you reach out for both knife and hand, and finding them cut to the bone, offering no penitent, complaisant gesture - Your song-less utterance is lost. I know you will acquire a taste for killing, as I have of steel and hot-blooded apprehension. such as when water meets the maple sickle during harvest and dream.
Galatea ~~~~~~~ Along what waters and straight away roads were you waiting to be born? Right along the apple blossoms that speak more of peaches than apples . Yet, if one were to cut away at you, They'd find two cores, and one chorus: a song as sweet as the salt night, and a hand out of synch with its place underneath the only pillow. You are almost unmentionable.
En Relojes ~~~~~~~~~~ with every winged tip of saffron blue that the rooftops have to offer, you flutter, like the lion, like some turquoise resemblance of things past, an apparition only closely resembling the wall clock. If ever I find time to remind you of how you dance, make sure that you (or I) are incognito; otherwise, I will not have the presence to help you.
Rehan Qayoom Post-dinner Item ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Already we counted ourselves amongst the prisoners of your locks But today we want to kiss yours hands as well For today you've adorned the dinner-table With such a delightful variety of delicacies That we are all perplexed From where to start It's amazing that in spire of being occupied in your Extremely demanding social duties You remained kitchen-bound for so long All this much! Surrounded by foolish cooks and unruly servants And such appetising food Seems a miracle to us On top of which is the astounding fact That you must be so tired Yet you're so jocund Lady so-and-so's feast was nothing in comparison with this Thanks Thank You so much for all this gratitude Now, what shall I present to you Tea, coffee or the poet?
SOLILOQUY ~~~~~~~~~ The people around me Seem to speak A totally different language That Wavelength Whereby I was connected to them Has entered another dimension Either my grammar has become obsolete Or their definitions have changed Their glossaries do not contain The meanings of the paths Upon which my words take me I am dumb to the sanctity of words and can only hold converse With the solitude of walls or with my own shadow I am terrified of the moment When I will entirely dissolve and disappear into myself Having forgotten that Frequency Upon which I used to talk (to myself) Am left repeating to myself "May Day, May Day"
Tomato Ketchup ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In our country A woman who writes poetry is considered a curiosity Every man fancies himself as the addressed And since in actuality it is not so So he becomes her enemy! As such Sara Shagufta Made few enemies And because she did not believe In offering explanations She had already become the sister in-law of them all Before she became a writer's wife Every Tom, Dick and Harry claimed That she had slept with him From dawn to dusk Every unemployed hack-writer in the city Buzzed around her Even those Who had jobs to go to Would leave their tatty files and worn-out wives And let her play in their hands (Oblivious of electricity bills, children's school fees and the wife's medicine For these were concerns Of the lesser mortals) All day long All evening 'So late into the night' Incensed talk would ensue on literature and philosophy When hunger struck They'd all chip in and order Bread and boiled pulse from the hotel round the corner Great dignitaries would then be offered tea At her expense They told her she was the Amrita Pritam of Pakistan Stupid gullible girl She fell for it Perhaps also because Those responsible for her bread and butter Always served her Kafka for tea With Neruda biscuits She survived Their drooling compliments But how long for One day or another she would've had to escape this panther prowl Sarah went one step further and left the jungle itself! She had been nibbled away alive by The flattering connoisseurs of art In their symposiums They still dribble at her name Except that they can no longer taste her For in death they have relegated her To the status of Tomato Ketchup!
Joseph Veronneau Estranged ~~~~~~~~~ Listening to the crickets outside your sandals sit down the hallway. I recall your barefoot imprints left to indentation on the carpet. I do not call and ask you what is happening. I've seen the distracted gaze and played it myself, the end lays there. "One of these days" becomes a common theme to cling to now that you're on a separate coast where the mosquitoes still bite but do not have to face the cold like they do here, the perseverance of constant presence resounds elegiac.
Blind Consent ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ That night Janet's dog caught that cat, tore it up badly. Its throat was slit; claws flinching in and out, unable to cry out. The dog took the cat between its jaws, drug it down the road half-running. The cat hung, looking straight ahead, destiny unknown to a certain extent. The gravel passed by and the streaks of the road were faint bolts of lightening, ripples in the sky flew by in peripheral horizon. The tunnel seemed long, weightless mammal flying through the twisted breeze.
To Gain Back a Piece of What Was Lost ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was nice to see your face again the other night in my dream when you showed up you had the last book I ever leant you in your clenched possession. Still reluctant to give it back, I reached down and plucked it from your curled fingers, veins protruding from the knuckles. The rain slid past us as we caught gaze once again for the last time, mud loosened from the hardened cover and our voices spoke in tones inaudible to anyone with a window ajar.
Bishnupada Ray Taj Mahal ~~~~~~~~~ Memory and desire, immortal flame of the passionate heart bound in a unity from earth to heaven and beyond, the pathway of salvation. Travelling through the Arab sand they brought horses and camels the Bedouin tunes, rootless passion sailing with the Mediterranean love wind, they brought marbles the cool warmth of the olive health. The design they found in flicker in the dark water of Jamuna reflected in the pious conjunction of history, myth and will to live. The minarets they kept reserved for the muezzin to call the devotees to a prayer of a different kind with love the prophet bending over like the full moon in the background.
Global Warming ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ slum dwelling, lazy hot afternoon the sun directly falling on the face the tin roof is red hot, power-cut the relentless sun, dry as dust no umbrella cloud, dehydration birds have gathered around a tap the lemon-juice shop is empty, the vendor has gone home for afternoon rest one or two people are seen loitering purposeless, like the slow time record temperature, global warming women are seen doing the chores men are waiting for the sun to abate children are playing as usual laughing, hiding or chasing the sun.
Hostage ~~~~~~~ Masked men frisk me kick my ass if I go slow to follow their diktats, gun-totting demeanour, guns pointed at my brain the prized catch they fear to lose to the day, to the light and to the world they avenge the avenging angels from hell in one hand life, in another, death making me feel for the light of life some things are indispensable life is always indispensable.
Gesture ~~~~~~~ The worlds we share limitations, gaps, fissures lapses, blanks, silences gestures that only approach like a sign, like a symbol but never reach the voice donate some money for the unfortunate who has a hole in the heart, or cancer, tumour or leukemia my words, my actions why should they hurt others as principles, policies, laws my path is filled with rubbish I have to sweep them first and then do my duty before reaching my home.
Guilt ~~~~~ the rain falls across my days the dog stinks, the cat stinks the drain stinks, the rat stinks in a rain soaked day, they crawl up to you for warmth my mother tries to keep things tidy, grandmother struggles fearing she might die any day childhood memories of loving care I ask her to make some bread which I eat and give to the dog the cat, the rat, the drain splashing guilt all over my being for being in the line of suffering the suffering we give to one another that blurs or snuffs out the bond the allegiance towards the root but rebounds in greater sympathy the rain falls across the room across the ribcage to the heart.
Corey King Helios is Mad (Dog Days) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On those fiery days so dry The birds hung their heads as they flew by "Helios, you are mad!" The people cry out to the charioteer "Take the sun away, plunge us into darkness!" But he did not listen And so the men and women lay down and panted like dogs While the children submerged themselves In the muddy remnants of the reservoir And when the countryside was plunged into the darkness of night-- Life!
Weltall (Cosmos) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Such a distance Never to be touched by the Fingers of Starship exhaust Such a starry expanse Giving weight to His quality of power My lightyear is now, My lightyear comes to its end, My shuttle comes to a stop In the endless floating I see the mass Captured and then catapulted By many orbits A cosmic game of pinball I see the stars Oh, the way they collapse! Supernova, how the energy is atomic! Cosmos! We are just specks in your bowl Cosmos! We are all that is
Longing to Drink the Storm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It teased me with a drop on my head I looked up at the sky and whispered "Now are you ready? You must be, For the levels are dangerously low" It shivered with excitement But still, nothing
Felino Soriano Bareness Evaluates Existence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Exactness interrogates quasi aliveness, what barely breathes extends between various levels of multiplied existence. Highness, or, originally tended to escape its genesis, to correlate with royalty now clean, rhymes loudly with bareness, its identity scraped off from flavor of unchewable corpse called organic reversal. Various clues into problematic virtues, dust overwhelms the disposition of all that ensues, once tomorrow outweighs an existence of critical, analytical thought.
Epiphanies are Specialized Vernaculars ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Guarantees, guesses, going back to their genesis, lives insist on inhabiting habitual dispositional nuances, shades of diaphanous degrees, where descriptive desires lay hidden requests beneath fully stretched and continuously contagious with wandering wishes. Below the environment of wants, needs, fundamental stereotypes containing spatial nothingness between being and ergonomically sensitive environments, awareness arrives in methodical concepts, ingeminating realistic consciousness regarding awakened discernment, familiarity toward a focus of linear cohesiveness.
The Size of the Equation Was Equivalent to Its Purpose ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Early, as in a ripening feature, before light spread directionally between multifolding aspects of specialized caricatures, sovereignty adorned with classical lines of Victorian themed presence, many formats containing promises, premises, imaginative renditions regarding speculative species, whose original genetic terminology called for futuristic idioms, ideologies spoke toward the many listening of the hardly understanding.
The Trusting is Willing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The nocturnal lyric of wind's perseverating howl, whose kin of shadows splayed forth in directional camaraderie with delighting competitive angles of aimless groupings. Fires residing atop winged species sped through horizontal halos, galloping, as though life in forms of progressive tunnels had been eerily prescribed for all onlookers, diagnosed as dumbfounded, regarding illusive dishonesty manifested through vernacular, purposely hiding guidance of the willing to correspond with on the basis of trusted diligence.
Within Reality, a Philosopher Documents Current Culture ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "What has been transferred to our society is a synopsis consisting of many complicated mazes for our children to distance themselves from." Antonio Batan Comprising within a fathoming thought, current culture which ensued after swooping erasure, swiping as in giant gallops from majestic mythological gods, … la mode styles journeying through minds categorizing themselves, juxtaposing length of importance with the unimportant regarding existence, although lifestyles maintain in many forms, featuring materials once invisible to the imagination. Science still dominant. Metaphors arranged in alphabetic conjectures, allowing theoretic imaginations to conjure multiple sections of lighted paths. How is not the question, but one of many dormant words queued in quarantined vernacular, waiting to be expressed regarding current mode of languages, expressing an existence by default has become shadowless in a monotony of mendacious mirrors.
A Priori: Stilled Portrait ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Prior to presenting my presence toward ensuing existence within employment, existential displays of interaction with Cultural antithetical mindsets to my own, sun showing fiery frustration, a positional stance of gauging glared glorification, predetermined, a priori of vernacular hanging shaped species of copasetic genesis. Clouds splayed in directional diversity, determining chemical visuals, those of enhancing assumptions into informational truths, protruding demeanor pacing within facets of factual reasons, existing, heights within visual reach, outreaching tangible ability, the mind became suspended in the faculty of judgment, the portrait of stilled anger, high, higher than capable, imaginative species within the mind of my stilled curiosity, sun remained glaring, a metaphoric mover of specialized simplicity.
The Unity of Curiosity ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ for Duane Locke Anatomies arranged in continuum species, spectrum of open arms allowing interpretations to define elongated series of philosophical terminology, taken from tired tongues, as in stolen monuments of poetic minds, the forgotten and foreign who in spectacular indentation within literary … la mode monotony are unaware of dichotomy, dissimilarities, following the protocol toward closing an improper gap of intellectual spontaneity.
Burgeoning Reality ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Commenting on what moves and breathes independently between an etcetera, birth and death, two contradictions, juxtapositions equate to a definitional atmosphere regarding speed and crawling attributes of the human mind. Common are dual factors of interpretations remaining new in dialectical fashions within the mind. Core spirals involve critical thinking, where assumptions must first become ascertained, stripped to their naked capability, an informational reality, hyper-built dependent upon ratio of caveat of judgment and independent, immediate social climate within the theory of self reflection.
Gary Beck Culture Clash ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scene: The outdoor dining area of an East Village, New York City restaurant. Enter three men in their late 20's. They sit at a table. Characters: Greg - White, Reggie - Black Edgardo - Hispanic Jennifer - White Nina - Hispanic Greg: I don't mind losing. I just can't stand the way they knock me around. Edgardo: Aw. Stop complaining, Greg. If you tried a little harder, we wouldn't get beat so bad. Reggie: That's easy for you to say. You were an athlete in college. Greg and I are techno-wizards. We shouldn't even be playing basketball. Greg: That's for sure. I don't know why we let you talk us into this. Edgardo: You know why. It gets us out of the IT department twice a week, with a nice dinner paid for by the company, and a week's paid vacation at the end of the tournament. Greg: Alright. We know that. But why basketball? You should have picked a company sports league where at least we'd have a chance. We go home with aches and bruises every time. Edgardo: Mira. They don't have badminton or lawn croquet, my feeble friends. All you gotta do is learn to get out of their way when they have the ball. When you have the ball, just run past them and shoot as quick as you can. Reggie: You better tell it to them. That asshole from legal kept hitting me with his elbow whenever he was near me. Even when the play was over. I think I have a cracked rib. Edgardo: Don't be such a wuss, Reggie. Greg: Is he a wuss because he doesn't like being hurt? Edgardo: They hurt me too. Reggie: It doesn't seem to bother you as much as it does us. Edgardo: It hurts me. I just don't make as much of a fuss about it. Greg: Why can't we have a video game league? Reggie: Yeah. We could really kick ass. Edgardo: That's exactly why nobody else wants it. They know they wouldn't stand a chance. Reggie: We don't have a chance in basketball. Is that fair? Edgardo: We entered for a reason. You seem to be forgetting that. Listen. I'm a reasonable guy. You know what's at stake. If you want to stop it's okay with me. (Reggie and Greg reluctantly shake their heads no.) Greg: We'll finish, Edgardo. We're just tired of all their name-calling. That fat, hairy slob of a lawyer kept elbowing me and calling me a faggot. I keep trying to trip him, but he always avoids it, then elbows me hard. Reggie: He did that to me too, except he called me a black faggot. He doesn't wear a shirt and got his sweat all over me. We shouldn't have to take that shit. Edgardo: Hey, guys. There are only two games left. Let's be cool and get through them. If you don't want to do it next year, we won't. Greg: I don't know if I can take two more games. Edgardo: Don't be a girlie-man, Greg. We don't have to play against the Neanderthal lawyer again. The last two games are with accounting and sales. The accountants won't be too physical. You guys can handle them. Greg: Maybe. But those salesmen are animals. They must smoke crack, or take something that makes them so aggressive. Edgardo: Enough for tonight. Let's relax and change the subject. Greg: Hey. Look at those two girls coming this way. Reggie: They're great looking chicks. Edgardo: Don't get your hopes up. They're probably N.Y.U. dykes. Greg: You're crazy. They're beautiful. Edgardo: That doesn't mean anything these days. They could be lipstick lezzies. Greg: What's that? Edgardo: That's when both girls are feminine. Reggie: What are N.Y.U. dykes? Edgardo: The school has a reputation because so many lesbians go there lately. Reggie: How do you know all that? Edgardo: If you take your head out of your Blackberry once in a while you'd know what was going on_. I'm going to talk to them. (Enter Jennifer and Nina.) Hey, girls. What's happening? (They ignore him and start to walk by. He leans over and stops them.) What's the matter? Are you too good to talk to us? Jennifer: We're not interested. Edgardo: We just want to talk. Don't you like men? Nina: As a matter of fact, we don't. Now fuck off. Edgardo: No need to cop an attitude. I was just being friendly. Nina: Save it for your asshole buddies. Edgardo: You got some mouth on you. Didn't your momma ever teach you any manners? Nina: Not as far as pigs are concerned. Edgardo: There's no need to be so insulting. Jennifer: Then next time don't stop us, asshole. Edgardo: You're beginning to piss me off. Reggie: Take it easy, Edgardo. Let them go. Nina: That's right, Edgardo. Listen to your sissy friend. Reggie: Why are you insulting me? I didn't say anything to you. I just tried to cool things. Nina: You're with him, aren't you? Pigs always hang together. Greg: (To Nina.) Don't you think you're over reacting? We're not looking for trouble. We just wanted to talk to a couple of good looking girls. Jennifer: Well we are a couple, but we don't like low-life male come-ons. Reggie: How are we supposed to know? It's not as if you're wearing a sign that says women only. Jennifer: Then you should keep your mouth where you keep your brains, right between your legs. Edgardo: It's a waste of time trying to be polite to them. Keep moving, bitches. Nina: Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Edgardo: A couple of dumb dykes. The same way they talked to us. Jennifer: Forget it, Nina. It's not worth hassling with them. Let's go. Nina: And just take their shit? Edgardo: (To Nina) Listen to your wife. Nina: (To Jennifer) I should kick his ass. (Edgardo laughs) Reggie: (To Nina.) Your friend is right. Let's forget it. Nina: The dominant black man isn't so tough now. Greg: He's trying to apologize before things get out of hand. Nina: (Pointing to Edgardo.) Let him apologize. Edgardo: For what? Trying to talk to a girl who turned out to be a guy in drag? Nina: One more insult and I'll punch you in the mouth. Edgardo: Beat it, butch, before you get hurt. Jennifer: (She tries to lead Nina away.) Come on, Nina. We don't need this. Nina: The fuck we don't. (She throws a punch at Edgardo, who ducks, then mocks her.) Edgardo: Is that all you got, little boy? Try again. Jennifer: (She grabs Nina's arm, who shrugs her off.) Don't, Nina. Let's go. (Nina moves closer to Edgardo and swings again. This time he blocks the punch, spins her around and boots her in the ass.) Edgardo: Now take off. Next time I won't be such a gentlemen. (Jennifer tries to pull her away, but Nina yanks free and lunges toward Edgardo. She picks up a butter knife from the table and tries to stab him. He moves aside and she hits Reggie, who yells loudly.) Reggie: Ow! My arm! She stabbed me. Yow. That hurts. Jennifer: Let's get out of here! (The girls run off. Reggie is moaning and holding his arm.) Edgardo: Should I chase them? Greg: What for? To make a citizen's arrest for assault? Let's help Reggie. (Edgardo and Greg inspect the injury.) Edgardo: It didn't even break the skin. She was right to call you a sissy. Reggie: Well it hurts. And I didn't even do anything. It's all your fault. Edgardo: All I did was say hello How was I to know they'd be vicious, fighting dykes? Greg: Maybe if you didn't call them offensive names nothing would have happened. Edgardo: That nasty little bitch started it. Reggie: And I got hurt_. I don't think I have to go to the emergency room, but I'll probably miss the next game. Edgardo: Don't use this as an excuse. You'll be alright by then. Reggie: Maybe. But promise me no more confrontations when we go out. This could have become a nightmare. Greg: Yeah. What if she really cut Reggie? Edgardo: I get it. Don't worry. I'll be cool. Reggie: I hope so. We were lucky today. Another time things could spin out of control and someone might get killed. It's happening all over these days. Greg: Yeah. People are getting shot for just looking at someone. And it's not as if they're giving them the evil eye, or something. It's just sick violence. Edgardo: Alright. I get the message. That's enough. Let's call it a day. (Exit.)


Maria Jacketti

Blank Document

If we were all born blank documents,
the world would only have to write on us:
but who might be the editor?
While it is true that the world writes on me
every day; it posts new texts atop layers
of the older ones.

In the wonderland of Catholics where I grew up,
all babies were such souls: snow white
cellular conglomerations ,
bags of innocence
waiting to serve the king.

But my brain always had an Eastern back-door:
trouble is, it takes great pie chunks of life to learn to open it.
I am still opening it with the bow, the cobra,
the cow, the triangle.

We come into this life from others:
baby blankets, karmic webs
have solution, 
if we are born onto the right game board, in time.
I give my physical prayer on a yoga mat.
"Dear God, I would be pleased it you make me
the hundredth monkey."


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 - 2006 by 
Klaus J. Gerken.

The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's 
World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.  No other 
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. 
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.


  * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
  submissions: kgerken@synapse.net

  Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: