YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

June 2009

VOL XVII, Issue 6, Number 194

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



   Cheri Fry
      Our Evening


   Sankar Roy 
      House of Pleasure
      American Online
      My Neighbor
   Alana Gasser
      Last Seen Skipping...
      The Catch
      We Live in Glass Houses
      Tone-Deaf (palindrome poem)
   Eric J. Brinovec
      7 Surrealist prose poems
   Mather Schneider
      NO SHAME


   Mois Benarroch
      Wouldn't it be nice


Cheri Fry

Our Evening

Our merlot seemed a cherrywarm sweet to me
as  penetrating hazel eyes
hot as coals burn into my flesh
raising temperatures
to a mercury high and then you gave pause
and just as I felt I was falling back to "normal"
you take my hand
and lead me
where time plus space melt into a desperate oblivion
Here, there are no intrustions
just  breathing and murmers
wet kisses that tentativly brush over my lips
heading south, north, east, and west
you delight me
in your practiced ways
your commanding nature
sweeping me off my feet to make blood boil
while clouds carry me
through softest azure skies
into parellel universes
where life becomes one. 

Sankar Roy 

House of Pleasure

Now that we have painted the walls
and distanced ourselves from anything unsightly,

we hope to spend the rest of our lives unperturbed,
sunk in the sap.

In fact, we made pacts never to sing that sad song again.
We have taken vows

before cleaning the floor with rose water
and blocked every miserable thought...

covered windows with blinds so that
the cloud cannot play its mischief.

Truants ~~~~~~~ Those who already left, no one can ask them to leave again. Their ghosts settle in your house without paying rent. Their photos, fixed on the wall, recap the complaints and their eyes, hazy behind the glass, caution you of their absence. They decline to listen to your side of the story. Their silence, grave in your head, forms hailstones; as if you're left in the rain without an umbrella and their belongings feel heavy on your hand, without a forwarding address. Absconders are like bad karma: They make you feel guilt for the wrongs which you never committed. They're tricksters who play with your remembrance: They bring up incidents which never took place and it feels their wobbly images about to disappear but stay.
American Online ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I bought a devil online. Someone sold him on eBay for twenty bucks, the shipping was free. FedEx delivered him at my doorstep. As soon as I took him out of the box, he began doing things: occupying my slippers, wearing my clothes, he started calling his monster buddies using our phone. First I felt sad, then my wife and I initiated a fistfight over something trivial. Within hours, the devil taught my children to play internet poker; then he auctioned them off to buy himself drinks in a virtual casino. I became genuinely angry when I discovered that he knew everything about me and had been instant messaging my wife for many months.
My Neighbor ~~~~~~~~~~~ Skull, bone, spine, spleen or a trace of blood, the boxer shorts or a torn shirt, whatever remains, not biodegraded in the desert sand, get them. Our neighbor, Mrs. Patterson needs them. Mrs. Patterson, mother of Private Patterson_ no flesh, no mind, no preschool, no home task, summer camp, baseball club, homerun, no jazz, no band, no pituitary gland, mother of a coded number. Time does not tick in Mrs. Patterson's kitchen clock. It does not matter if America discovers the Internet or a Pentium_ If Bill Gates rages a raga or Bill-O-Reilly eats lamb kabob. Someone still sends the social security checks, Mrs. Patterson is glad and somebody will soon knock at her door, she knows. When he is home, he opens the refrigerator with dirty fingers as a blue bird chirps on the front porch.
Alana Gasser Last Seen Skipping... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Last seen skipping in hot pursuit of quick white tail, did you find what you were looking for, Alice? I've seen a lot - in fact, I caught a glimpse or two of an invisible cat and a giant caterpillar blowing silky smoke rings in the blue expansive sky. You might say I'm mad When I tell you of crying rivers of tears enough to fill a two-storey home - but you see, I was five times as tall at the time. You might say I'm mad, but I must disagree - for you haven't met the mad-hatter, whose loose chatter rings like tossed word-salad. He suffered a terrible fall trying to reach the early of gray. Come Alice, let's play a game. I have never played, for the selfish queen of hearts paints her self portrait on her very own sleeve. Are you well, Alice? No, you see, when I was chasing that bunny I fell down a long hole and I've been falling ever since...
The Catch ~~~~~~~~~ "Perfect", He'd said. He'd toiled in the clay for heavy hours, moulding everything from nothing with His bulbous, beautiful hands. "He'll mate and propagate, one day", He'd said. He grinned over His creation; and he breathed it life. And He might have smiled as He said "This is good", or He might have laughed as a maniac in a starless night, simultaneously giving the form before him, life and death
(untitled) ~~~~~~~~~~ refracted beams light shines through tiny drops of rain from hot to cool the lovely continuum lies against striking blue a sparrow song drifts from some distance away beyond the rainbow
We Live in Glass Houses ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You can't kick stones on the sidewalk. They bounce off tattered shoes and shattered bottles scratching, stabbing the street. People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones anyway. Over the counter, Misfortune's hands are filthy handling dirty cash, palm outward. Misfortune wears a `Native Pride' hat stained in booze and tattered with wear. Placing a bottle of hairspray in the bag you ignore that Misfortune is bald, you wear the smile that says: Have a good night. Don't you know, he won't use it on his head? Skipping across the train tracks - Side-stepping a mud puddle and the empty bottle of Listerine within it. After all, your feet are wet enough already.
Tone-Deaf (palindrome poem) ~~~~~~~~~ Teacup to hands and feet up, placed gently in relaxation of joyful notes spewing from sixfold-strung guitars. Octaves butchered, you sing to masterful tuned, deliciously soft music. Oblivious, you are tone-deaf. Are you oblivious? Music, soft, deliciously tuned, masterful to sing. You butchered octaves. Guitars strung sixfold from spewing notes, joyful of relaxation. In gently placed-up feet and hands to cup tea.
Eric J. Brinovec 1. Someone noticed I still existed in a sprayed mist of tiny eyeballs, I drifted in a circle, that was a triangle, sphere, and a rectangle,... all encased in a square, walking became challenging, terror(Psychological) became overwhelmingly terrifying, panic. I seen a man eat an equation before I could get there, it was too late. I only grazed the frequency I couldn't and wasn't designed to hear within my genetic category (Human)... 2. Human-shaped, creatures comprised of eyeballs drove the molten men of steel west, surviving on boot meat, they marched on carpets carved of unmelting ice. It rained severed monkey hands that day as they determinedly traveled to find what they hoped to be a better place... they looked to the sky, and a cloud of smoke cut the moon in half, it split apart and human limbs flew out, the sun smiled, and all the mountains howled... Blood drops curiously rained out of the ground and up to the sky, selfish prayers were broadcasted out of the speaker towers on the hilltops, Only a god could wish or will them the best... 3. A headless man with one invisible hand, quietly sits in a clear, formless house, under the hot midnight sun. He is fiercely contemplating complex molecular adhesion... He then realized that complex patternistic complexities are the foundation of what we perceive to be simplicity...Suddenly he shattered a block of ice cold infinity and realized that all those pieces of infinity are eternally infinite... A gentle but frightening enlightenment silently ensued... A floating window pane he knew then held his invisible hand as it wordlessly consoled him... 4. Contemplating the complex pursuit of the intellectual, and basic complex contemplation, I walked in a dimension outside of itself, grazed a conceptual sphere, and tripped on a visual limitation... 5. I opened an empty box, and inside I seen a green wave cowering in the corner, It had realized its temporary sentience, it knew its natural flow would cause it to disperse, death for a wave of flowing particles, I whispered in its ear "There is no death", It appeared to comfort it. Because it slowly ascended from the box, smiled at me and fearlessly proceeded to flow into seeming obscurity... 6. I pointed at something and accidentally scratched a hole in the air, some birds flew through it, then a hexagonal tornado befriended the hole, the a gust of wind blew them away... 7. Complex fascination in waves and fluctuations, fluctuated in a misty herd of clouds..., soaking in a dry mass of scattered light and thoughtful inquiries, dancing on the top of the burning sun...
Mather Schneider NO SHAME ~~~~~~~~ Mark found a dead body by the bus stop at Craycroft and 22nd 3rd dead body he s found in his 3 years driving a cab I ve only been driving about 4 months the worst thing I found was puke on the back seat Mark said he threw up when he saw the dead guy he said he threw up the first 2 times too it s no shame now no shame then
WHY THE HELL ~~~~~~~~~~~~ count the days and sign the checks life insurance guilt trips everybody selling something I don t want to believe the hive has entranced us nobody knows how we are built to live why we go madder each minute everything warped laughing like a funhouse louse soul a moth-eaten substitute for immortality god fucking silo of lies thermos of blood our lives barely a moment to the tamarind sun the bleak truth of black space sometimes intelligence is a place with no oxygen terrifying nexus of self awareness insanity looking at itself in the toilet water why the hell are we here
SLIPPED ~~~~~~~ pole horses in my mind pull thoughtless people by the hair through the mud so many mouths proud to be dumb bundles of dope-wires crossed and bungled and slipped there is a sadness to everything a falseness why have we to suffer the believers we are not meant to be like this we are meant to be happy
ANIMATED THUMBPRINT ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the crash of a gate closing gas hikes new orleans a watery grave a burnt out comet kissing the ocean hurricane like a giant animated thumbprint tell me the world is not mad the mind is a blood streaked mirror with a corner missing something is wrong with a confident person envy and hatred roll together like alligators with guillotine jaws at the last minute a lag in flow wrenches the flowers loose wolf fangs like dripping faucets a thousand birds fuck on the shingles the dead weight of desert air what kind of fool dog makes it to the roof of society what kind of idiot prospers
IN THE HALF-WORLD ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I wake up with a cocaine head hating the price and my own stupidity enchilada pie at eleven I crack the curtain sun a turk with golden teeth crazy Chinese woman across the alley in the safety of her yard even insanity is tired yawns with aplomb an unstrangleable lion knowledge useless as tits on a boar brackish love cavalier as a prince I feel like a toad speed boating through New Orleans ice cream melting while people rot


Mois Benarroch

Wouldn't it be nice

Wouldn't it be nice
To die tonight
After the gout crisis
Just after the first

Wouldn't it be nice
To leave this world
Just before my novel is published
In Spain
Just some days before fame

Just before my eyes
Become extinct by sights
They shouldn't see

Wouldn't it be nice
After all
People would say
He died on the verge of fame and success
And, me, well, from out there would say
What has success got to do with it
Success was writing the poem
Not having it read
And that happened a long time ago

Before death, just as it happens now
Before your eyes, beneath your skin
Giving life again to the bones
That were a not there before you read
This very words
Wouldn't it be nice
To die tonight

And leave this wonderful world
This very, very wonderful world
As it is without adding more grief.



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 - 2009 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