YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

September 1998

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch
Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla & Rita Stilli

ISSN 1480-6401


	  Scarlet Night....................................Patricia Kriegel

          Whores I - XII...................................Kerith Edwards
	  Because Missionaries did it There................Holly Day
	  This Must Be
	  August 6, 1996
	  Reverie..........................................Marc Awodey
	  A River
	  We Never Knew The Sea
	  Safety Glasses
	  The Old Men
	  The Poem.........................................Moshe Benarroch
	  Ask For That Love Again
	  The Hammass Terrorist
	  Gold Grilles
	  the road
	  in a few thousand years
	  Mother Death



   Scarlet Night

   By Patricia Kriegel
   My wife will die tonight. How dare she lock me from her daughter's room?
   I am the wolf. I have hunted my prey and keep them under my roof. Her
   daughter tells tales how her mother plans to leave. She will not leave
   by the door. I will put her to rest on the floor. She can not keep her
   daughter from me. I have tasted the fruit so sweet. She is like a cherry
   ready to fall from the tree. I will pick my cherry before she falls from
   life's adversities. I will pick my cherry and show her life's pleasures.
   I will give her treasures, if she ask for money. I will give my honey
   gold, if she ask for rubies. I will give her diamonds to wear upon her
   fingers.  Her eyes are like diamonds from the sky. I will take her to be
   mine. I will give her wine and she will be mine. I will lay the finest
   of treasures at her feet and lick her feet. She will be mine. I will
   melt her mother down like hot wax. Her beauty will always be remembered.
   I will see her beauty through the eyes of her child. Her child will live
   on to please me, and to be mine. I will take this child while hot and
   mold her into shape. She will think her mother killed herself. I will
   make it look like my wife killed herself. Her death will not be on my
   mind. I will let my wife choose how she will die tonight, if she chooses
   by the blade. Her bloodstain would rest on the floor and door. There
   would be bloodstains all over the house, if she chooses by my hand. I
   would take by the hand, choking her until she's out of breath. There she
   would lie like a wounded pet out of breath. I could break her neck, but
   than they would no it was not suicide. Than my name would be stained. I
   would be remembered as the man that killed his wife. Than I would be
   locked in prison and never, taste the cherry of my life.  My wife you
   will die tonight. Choose, how you shall die. You can either take these
   pills or I will break your neck. How will you die tonight? If you kill
   me, everyone will know that you took my life. Why my husband must, I die
   tonight. Do you choose my daughter who looks like me? Do you think that
   she will stay with you? She is yet young and doesn't know her mind.
   Everyone will find out that you chose my daughter over me. I curse the
   day that she was born. I curse they way I must die tonight. Oh God hear
   me tonight. Don't let me die this way. Let me die old in my grave, that
   I may live to have grandchildren one day. Let not the wolf kill me
   tonight that has trapped me under his roof. I am under his hoof. Let me
   escape the roof that falls. I fall down on my knees and pray that you
   take all poisons from me tonight. Let him not have my child. I pray you
   give this young prey a mind to run. Too, run with the wind to never be
   caught by the scavenger this way. If he take my child, he will kill me
   twice. When he tires of her she will die one night this way.  Save my
   fawn oh God and let her run away. Save her from being prey. For the
   hungry wolf has tasted her blood, and he chooses her blood over mine.
   Cleanse my child oh God. Make her crimson as white as snow. Let my child
   be pure again. Let no harm come to her I pray. No one can save you my
   dear. Your God doesn't hear you. Why should he hear your prayers? Your
   body will be cold in two hours, and the dogs that you pet. They will run
   from you my pet.  The dogs will never want to lie against you again.
   They will smell your stinky corpse and run wild and I will have the
   child. The perversion will take over this house. No more conversations
   will I have with you as far as what you will and won't do. The child
   will do everything I ask her to do. I have already started molding her.
   She likes money. She will do anything for money and I make a lot of
   money. I give her everything she needs. I will be the father she never
   had. No longer will locks be put on my doors. This is my house no locks
   are allowed on doors. I leave you alone to die behind this door with
   your pets.



        Dedicated to the Whores of Amsterdam

   Whores 1
   Cash puppies
   Sweet holes charming
   dick fires to quiet
   But more tits
   quake the damn fuckers 
   back to still-stand,
   must-have payers
   for her
   self-inflicted brutalities
   Buy me.
   I am twat.
   But more,
   soft. And you, 
   you can pay to
   squeeze away,
   my particular parts cost, 
   honey, sweety-pie
   darling, fuck my
   dry thing.
   Stiff rubbered
   drumstick dummies
   idiot fools,
   paying me to murder
   myself while
   murder me.
   You come
   Gimmie whatta want
   Damn night strider
   Money folded
   Just give it here.
   Suck you off forever,
   And I would
   But you blow it--
   the double wad of your own death.
   And I am life itself.
   Whores 2
   Oooooooh, that's right...
   I swing and sidle
   in my heart,
   cannot do it
   for honest
   like it
   should be.
   Gotta be free
   to do the dumbo
   freaky thing
   that I am.
   For myself.
   It's for myself.
   Got you,
   all motherfuckers,
   palmed up,
   Got you all.
   Short cool fuse
   Aching 'til I can get away.
   Whores 3
   Pump. Pack.
   Pay up now.
   I'll be sweet.
   Bills in the slot
   Dough safe, 
   Don?t hurt me!
   The red button means,
   'Fuck you, john'
   Cause I do it
   for bread.
   You do it for bone.
   I do it fast
   Hole in the uni-verse
   cake walk
   Dead mousey heart
   Violent bullied
   Fakey flower
   Your candy sliced
   quick up the back
   Whatever, can do!
   Kissy me
   For a price
   I?ll keep your 
   where it's always
   Maintenance babes 
   for hire.
   Whores 4
   I don?t walk
   I stand.
   I can feel my tits
   like canon balls 
   crushing your
   crotch-heavy lengths.
   My power.
   Do you get it?
   I feel nothing.
   But dig cock, sure.
   My power pays.
   You just
   have no idea
   what it's 
   to be you.
   Whores 5
   john, john!
   Oh well, he was sweet.
   Came in
   and he wanted to touch my hair.
   Almost made him
   pay extra
   for that.
   Talked for a sec
   Money on the dresser.
   Oh, johnny!
   He starts with,
   'I take this medication.'
   Sure, honey.
   In other words,
   Got my dough
   For a smile
   long hair
   Whores 6
   I am tired, john
   I need your bucks
   Fresh spider-webbed
   bills on a 
   can full of rockets.
   Please boys
   Stack it up for me
   with a careful
   I'm tired
   with a minimum
   3 j's to go
   Crashed in a
   file cabinet
   That's my life,
   The drawer
   of my room
   is the place
   where he
   But I'm so tired,
   Tonight is it.
   No more
   Sacrements for
   the raunchy
   I've got to
   Get some rest.
   Whores 7
   Crack-fired me
   Cock-fired up me
   Damn, can't take
   another stiffy!
   But I will.
   Sure, baby.
   I just grab
   their cocks
   jam, yank
   fire away.
   Then I'm good.
   Move on.
   Got my fanatics
   lined up,
   lined up to boot
   never ending.
   Whacked--you can't
   save me!
   Whores 8
   Believe it!
   Take a walk
   Look at her
   Bitch actually likes
   to fuck, 
   lying to dumb niggers
   for a lay?
   Smack hoochy.
   'Sluts' like to screw.
   But whores are 
   Jack-off artists
   With dry concaves.
   Man haters
   Fucked to bits
   But never
   Make a face
   Choose the theme
   It's so dead
   I can't
   even write another
   Whores 9
   What a backwash night
   Dude came back
   2 hours later
   3 johns later
   3 stacks-o-mac later
   Came back for another round
   this time his face
   wore a cracker jack
   ring lie
   He knew my 
   My ball game
   the way I keep 
   myself. My rhyme.
   He came back.
   I Opened up my door.
   Held back.
   Hundred in his hand
   folded under my nose,
   lying mother.
   As if
   I didn't know
   He was gonna cut me
   this time.
   Man! As if
   I didn't know
   from that look
   what he was gonna do.
   I Closed up my door.
   stood there
   looking in
   folded the hundred 
   once more, in four.
   Stood there long time
   looking in.
   As if
   I'd break.
   As if
   I didn't know
   the formula for love
   the formula for hurt
   the catch phrases and whinings
   of pain.
   Whores 10
   johns come and go
   in a flow
   to and fro.
   Cats in the wind
   crap shooters
   thick skinned.
   Big dickies
   little squirties
   purple ballies
   sticky hurties.
   Whores 11
   Have any idea how much it would cost
   To get out of here?
   30 butt bops
   pays my rent for half a year.
   20 sucks with bare tits
   has my debt clear.
   60 hand jobs
   brings my college dreams near.
   So quite honest
   it don't take much
   to get out of here.
   Whores 12a
   I am going to get off my stump
   walk down town
   for a fragrant, lacey hump.
   Thin, juicy creatures
   compressed titties
   aberrated features.
   Kissy lippy
   Christallmighty on
   my tippy.
   Got my thingy,
   back to hotel
   call my wife,
   Whores 12b
   My little street
   red banner of lamp light
   Dames percing,
   perching hot.
   Tap tap tap
   my ring on my glass
   tap tap
   hey baby
   How much?
   Suck 50
   Fuck 50
   bra of, 25.
   If you can't 
   cost you mo
   for me 
   to touch. it. you.

HOLLY DAY Because Missionaries Did It There ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Calamitous children reflect a society we have forgotten. Our poor peons are your breathing, hung dry and your breathing, concentrate on more helpful things than crazytalk and logic. She woke up one day and opened her mirror, found the bewildered old friend she had lost in her dreams. Skeletal fingers kissed back from inside the glass and whispered, "This time, you've gone too far." Rebellious children reflect a society we have abandoned. Our teats of missionary eyes sweep over the burnt landscape of your body, listen to your breathing, concentrate on more helpful things like planned drive-bys to take away the pain, an homage to an artificial limb, the way your clothes mask and cover you deformed flesh. Today, I am a connoisseur, the left hand of appreciation, awkward in my adoration. My fingers rub the tedium and recovery from your face. Those people are still in my house. With the eyes of the devoured. With my cat.
HOLLY DAY This Must Be ~~~~~~~~~~~~ I can talk better than my father. When he was a little boy, desire walked on lean legs down the halls of his sleep, shadows of a mother who couldn't stand a real miracle. The world could snore, wrangle or tear the invention of baby booties to shreds as far as she cared, a diamond big as a parfait breathlessly running into rooms drunk, seeking some sort of escape from the infant folded into the earth at her feet. I have seen my father's dreams, twisted up into soft green blankets my own mother left behind. My father, who said of any gambler, "Love is both under and above the edge of a sword." He grew up quickly, grew old quickly, haunted by ghost violinists watching with amused faces, watching the end of something I heard the screams of my father, pulled apart his crumpled broken wings with cold fingers I saw myself in his dead black eyes. He had written me out of his dreams.
HOLLY DAY August 6, 1996 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ twenty miles past a home I never knew a thousand miles away is a home I've never been planning faces to wear when my parents arrive to meet my eight-month-old son and the father of my child wondering if my father still has brown hair or if it's gone all white and sea-urchin-stiff if my mother looks matronly, like my own grandma does or if she's still a punk rocker, thin woman, rough edges twenty miles ago I felt the old dreams all die ahead is a promise and a threat of a new life.
MARC AWODEY Reverie ~~~~~~~ Men barked nonsense on Lunar hills, deaf to the music of our moon. When her glassine sands were pressed, to transmit clips of harlequin white; conquest illuminated the dome of night. To understand why her ungodly face appears to mourn; ask why we strolled the lunar hills, and danced upon her virgin humps- our follicles, and fragile toes encased in air conditioned boots. And when each burnt out nerve is soothed to see our silver mirror ebb and wax, as spheres and hemispheres descend to dream in undreamt volumes deepened by a drum of tidal urge- perhaps our sable voices will return so that we sing, to sail like drunken Greeks through timeless stars, and stir the rainless latitudes that sweep and span the Sea of Tranquility.
MARC AWODEY A River ~~~~~~~ They scooped their watery beds where a silver river wrinkled and rose to raft the fry that failed, over embryos, and last year's leaves. I followed arcs of salmon, reflecting sun, they spawned on gravel gems; costumed in false red jaws. They scooped their watery beds where a silver river wrinkled and rose to raft the fry that failed, over embryos, and last year's leaves.
MARC AWODEY We Never Knew the Sea ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We knew a seemingly endless thread of peppery beach and beach grass, we watched an azure haze enfold horizon- but we never knew the sea. What we spoke of is sincerely lost though could shoreline be refound the sound of sounding lighthouse would not acquiesce to variance beyond an ashen, inevitable sound. If hollowness could again disperse all shade of ghost below an empty western field- sandpipers would not conjure fewer risks, frail rows of curling waves would break in strains that do not murmur any less; and yet your sound would not resound a sea- for we never knew the sea.
MARC AWODEY Safety Glass ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Encapsulated; turquoise 20mg. slouched inside a sweltering automobile reactions shut off one by one. Workers take out noontime meals from foil bags and bright brown bottles. Dream they would dream if time allowed of god knows what in this situation. Just so, they sit in cars head back, bent by vinyl atmospheric conditions. Lounging in supermarket parking lots. Procrustean rows of secret lives are outlined by curves of safety glass. Let us, imitate turtle eggs heaped beneath sand and pray that the strongest among us will question nothing. Be more concerned with feet than footprints.
MARC AWODEY The Old Men ~~~~~~~~~~~ Today i pulled out one of my teeth just thinking about the old men reading their poems at my house last night all Glowing Pate bearded exchanging memories comparing prisons personal Vancouvers in images all reeking of Merwin-
MARC AWODEY Memphis ~~~~~~~ Underneath painted columns at Memphis mystery rites were once performed midst introits for Isis, Osiris their son Horus, and his brother Anubis. Underneath Tyrian hashish plumes draped in wreaths 'round midnight, censers and cymbals bloom in lilac majesty beyond our Hubbel telescope. Pomegranate seeds and cinnamon spice the nadir of my demitasse- as censers and cymbals bloom lilac radiance, frail bean stalks of Camel smoke spiral into flowery flights of aquamarine tin ceiling. Fading beyond the Beal Street jail, walking toward Jefferson Davis Waterfront park, another blasted tourist with clammy hands blends into the heat of Memphis. Underneath painted columns at Memphis, mystery rites were once performed midst introits for Isis, Osiris, their son Horus, and his brother Anubis.
MOSHE BENARROCH The Poem ~~~~~~~~ first there is a sound a familiar and distant sound coming from the twelfth century in Granada or Lucena then less than a second later there is a rhythm like a lonely drum in a high mountain played by the leaves and the branches sometimes subtle sometimes noisy and unbearable then there are the words a line or sometimes two when written the words start flowing as if they were waiting for the door to be opened sometimes it is just one poem mostly there are hundreds waiting for me to write them no matter how hard I tell them there are not many readers left to read them they all want to be written screaming at me convincing me asking and begging but I have to make the choice which ones to write which ones to leave.
MOSHE BENARROCH Ask For That Love Again ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The one we couldn't believe would happen the love when we didn't know we were in love the love when I couldn't write a love poem so busy was I loving you, now I have so much time to write you poems but you don't ask for my love you are in front of me but you are memories and in your eyes it is not me I see but the idea and the image you have made of me and I say now if she only asked for that love again but there is no again there is no going back our cells have been destroyed and remade so many times we are not those two young crazy lovers we are not who we are and our cells have been given to other creatures sitting between us as a sun not letting us see each other siting between us as a sea not being able to see the other shore now if you only asked I would give you that love again but you can't ask and that love would not be the same the look in your eyes the color of my eyes have changed they are looking elsewhere for someone else asking for that love again that love that will make me forget my pride my shipwrecked literary career my lack of readers that love so much like malt whisky expensive and making forgive without a hangover in the morning please ask for that love again ask for that same love but you won't ask you are trying to forgive me you are trying to appease me you are trying all the time instead of asking of demanding it is your it is my right to have that love again if we had it once if we lost it if we know its taste we have the right to that love again, we can only blame ourselves, life and God.
MOSHE BENARROCH The Hamass Terrorist ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ after Wysalva Czymborska "The Terrorist" and dedicated to Asaf and Meital and to all the victims who lost legs, lives and futures. 1. In a few moments he will blow himself he is young, he has no children he has no wife, in a moment nothing will be left of him. No one will know who he was he left home years ago and disappeared forever. I am sitting very close drinking an espresso and smoking a cigarillo my friend asks me to come with him to the place of the bomb I tell him I am tired which is not true and that I will wait for him. he doesn't know and I don't know that in a few minutes the terrorist will explode the hope for peace will explode and that Meital's leg will explode and her brother Asaf will go to heaven. Meital's husband, a Doctor will hear the bomb and run to help the wounded not knowing that his wife and her brother are there. I am savoring the espresso It is a sunny day in Tel Aviv and after this bomb nothing will be the same again for months people will be afraid to come back here Dizengof street will be deserted. No one can stop him now it is too late he will die for Allah and for being young, virgin and indoctrinated. Even if I go there I can't stop him. My friend disappears. 2. Suddenly there is a boom and then there is silence 15 seconds of silence like the moment before God created the world or it is like the silence before being born It is a screaming silence that can cut the air, then there are police cars stopping the silence first come the Peugeot 205 one, two, three, fifteen of them, then the ambulance comes then people come from the place they have to tell the story they speak to everybody and to themselves a mother doesn't know what happened to her daughter people are making phone calls with telephones and mobiles very soon the whole system collapses this is the center of Israel Dizengof center in Purim everybody is here or could be here. I sit, hear what happened don't know what happened to my friend (he reappeared 5 hours later) I am left speechless for half an hour I stand try to talk to the waitress I can't make a sound I go back to my seat drink the water left. This half hour was the most scary poem I ever wrote. 3. I think of the whole day then I am really afraid. How I skipped the place of the bomb a place where I always go or pass through I took many side streets and my friend didn't understand why he just followed me I wanted all the time to go back to Jerusalem "Half hour in front of the sea That's enough for me" he said but he wanted the coffee "let's drink it here in Sheinkin and then go back" but he insisted he wanted to drink it in Frishman, and so on for the whole day. He has promised not to insist again and just follow me. 4. My religious friend said it is a sign but a sign of what of being right or being wrong. What kind of smoky shadowy cloudy world is this that when there is a sign we can't decipher it.
MOSHE BENARROCH Gold Grilles ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Who are these rich people these desperate people Why do they do to look so ill making others believe their money is better Who are these sad people expected to always look great to never become old to never be ill to always be happy in what kind of prisons do these rich people live?
MOSHE BENARROCH the road ~~~~~~~~ the road gets longer as the city of our dreams gets closer.
MOSHE BENARROCH In a Few Thousand Years ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In a few thousands years they'll say about us: They had great poetry but their technology was primitive they used heavy materials for everything They'll say: They had great poetry but their medical system was hell they had to kill to save lives they needed snakes to take care of people and their medical system was the very idea of a bad system doing more harm than good They had great poetry but for some reason the most famous books were written in a genre called novels a strange way of complicating simple stories They had great poetry but their world was a world of racism they had black people and black poetry gay poetry and minorities poetry African Asian and western and no one was equal to noone nowhere They had great poetry but they loved making wars and constructing heavy weapons and killing people and destroying cities this was the most common sport of that time They had great poetry but their poets were mostly poor and unknown They had great poetry and anybody could write they didn't need diplomas and studies to do their craft They had great poetry but their poetry was useless a few thousands years ago they thought that only science could help people until it destroyed everything. And at the end of the lecture a young boy will say: Maybe that's what's needed to write good poetry... Because we have no good poetry today.
MOSHE BENARROCH Mother Death ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Here they come all colours your choice here they come you can chose your death we have viruses car accidents cancers aids we have good marketed deaths we have rare death how about old-fashioned death like tuberculosis soon we will bring back the plague while we find a new potent virus that kill in a few hours we are developing them in our laboratories we have retro-death or sci-fi death and you can now die in your bed the hospitals are full no matter how many we open we have patients twice the beds. this is not Mr. death anymore this is mother-death.



   There was never a journey
   that did not end in death.


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

       Come one, come all! 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 and

    * 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

  . 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
  issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM
  or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery.
  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's 
  World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.


  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, 1994, 1995,
  1996, 1997 & 1998 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.

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS


    * Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
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