CD-ROM Aktief 1995 #6

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╔════════ July 1995 ═════════════════════════════ Volume 3, Number 7 ════════╗ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ █▀█ █▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀▀▀█ █▀▀▀█ █▀█ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ ▀█ █▀ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█ █▀ █ █▀▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ║ ║ █▀▀▀▀ █ █ ▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀▀▀ █ █ █ █ ▀█ █ █ █ █ █▀▀▀▀ █ █▀ ▀█ █ ▀▀▀▀█ ║ ║ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓──┐ ─┬─ ╓──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ╓──┐ ╥─ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ║ ║ ╟──┤ │ ║ │ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ╨ ┴ ╙─┘ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╓─╥─┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─ ╟──┘ ║ │ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╟──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ╙──┐ ║ ║ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨──┘ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╙──┘ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ Editor: Klaus J. Gerken ║ ║ Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy ║ ║ Associate Editors: Paul Lauda ║ ║ : Pedro Sena ║ ║ : Gay Bost ║ ║ European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch ║ ║ Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla ║ ║ : Evan Light ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╚════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ╥─╖ ╥ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓── ╓─╖ ╓─╥─╖ ╓─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─╢ ╟─╢ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╟─ ║ ║ ║ ╙─╖ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ║ ╨ ╜ ╙ ╨─╜ ╙── ╙── ╙─╜ ╨ ╙─╜ ╙─╜ ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙── ╨ ╙ ╨ ╙─╜ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ INTRODUCTION.........................................Gay Bost The Sour Sweetness of Tobacco........................Ron Tisdale Gifts?...............................................Ron Tisdale Expatriote...........................................Ron Tisdale Untitled.............................................Ron Tisdale THE CABIN............................................Bill Shultz THE WIND.............................................Bill Shultz THE NIGHT............................................Bill Shultz Apprentice to Deception..............................Jennifer Mulcahy Angel................................................Alvin Brinson Sun & Moon...........................................Alvin Brinson The Midnite Sun......................................Alvin Brinson Climactic Catch......................................Andrew Blevins Rush To Rush (Ode to Rush Limbaugh)..................Terry Long i expected it sooner.................................Igal Koshevoy Disengaged...........................................Kathy J. Kramer She's Not A Little Girl Anymore!.....................Kathy J. Kramer Twinkle Toes.........................................Kathy J. Kramer Liberation...........................................Kathy J. Kramer Like *Gone,* Baby....................................Kathy J. Kramer Gnosis...............................................Judas Leiken "I went down into the garden of nuts...."............Gay Bost POST SCRIPTUM Innocence Lost (Oklahoma City)....................Terry Long ▀█▀ █▀█ █ ▀▀█▀▀ █▀▀█ █▀▀█ ▀█▀▀█ █ █ █▀▀▀ ▀▀█▀▀ ▀█▀ █▀▀█ █▀█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █▀█▀ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ Wild One Within ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ Caratan was the wind. She was the rain. She was the sound of far off thunder...and I was the wild within. For most days in time she was a woman and led a woman's life. Children, hearth, gathering, preparing what was brought in from the hunt. There was no difference between her and I, none that could be seen, though the wise eyes would turn and focus, an inner knowing, a recognition of...something. When storms would roll across the land she would become restless, pacing back and forth. Sitting, suddenly, upon the ground, her legs crossed before her and her hands placed flat against the earth. She would lean forward with her elbows bent and close her eyes, her face upturned unto the skies. She had done this since childhood, done this despite the staring eyes and shaking heads, done this regardless of her mate's tendency to ridicule, done this beneath her children's questioning gaze. "The storms make her daft," her mate would explain, as if everyone hadn't seen this a thousand times. He would shake his head and walk away from her, take shelter in their hut and grudgingly prepare the children's meal or tend to their needs. I saw a time when Caratan turned and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes as gray as the skies, her lips curving down and her heart cold within her. Her eyes closed, again, and she leaned forward, bent low between her knees and kissed the ground, coming away with dust upon her lips. She spit, then, into the soil before her and rose, gathered her skirts about her, gathered up what she had been carrying and we walked into the tall grass, she and I. Her fingers stroked the wild grass seeds as they waved heavily to and fro atop their long stems. She closed her eyes and stood, face into the wind. A deep breath filled her lungs and was expelled. The wind rose and the rain began. We walked further into the far fields, across the land, down into arroyos and climbed the heights, Caratan and I, until our feet were weary and our legs hurt. Far past the gathering, far past the near hunt, until we turned and looked back along our trail. There was no village, no hut, no mate, no children...there were no heads to shake, nor excuses to make. It was then Caratan smiled. A great bird flew overhead, wings spread wide upon the high currents. Her eyes followed its direction, stayed with it until it disappeared into a far line of trees. It was that way we went, over damp earth and through bright grasses. toward the trees. I don't know how far we walked. The storm held back and only gave up gentle waters, warm in the late spring day. Gray became darker day and finally the black of clouded night was upon us, the tree line close enough to scent the forest floor. Caratan led. I followed. We slept the wet night beneath the eaves of the wood and I dreamt of the man and the children, dreamt their worried faces, dreamt him shaking his head and telling his nearest neighbor that Caratan had finally taken all he had and left him helpless. I didn't tell Caratan the dream. I didn't want to see her gray eyes or the coldness of her heart. Storm still promised at the dawning, damp beyond the shelter, damp within. The winds had risen, driving the rainfall at a slant away from the wood, giving some dry space on the edge. It was here that Caratan built her fire in the wind. I gathered the stones and laid the kindling, built as she decreed, cleared the grass away with my bare hands, pulling it up with root bound soil still attached. "Now will we burn the spaces between," she said, her voice low and harsh. In my heart I saw the small creatures of the grass lands flee, their homes destroyed, their fur singed..and the dead. I saw the nests go up in sudden flames and saw the eggs scorched and cracked. I saw a line of raging fire walking toward the children and I stayed her hand. She held me in thrall for moments and felt within my soul, probing fingers of ice and fire going deep. It was then she chuckled. "You are not so useless after all," was what she said, releasing me. She gathered up her skirts and ripped long tears going round and round until her legs were bare and she'd a length of cloth three times our height. One end she tied to my right wrist. The other to her left. "Now we are bound." There was some finality to her words that chilled me to the marrow of my bone. "And coming away with you to this place wasn't binding enough?" I asked, my voice soft. "It was," she answered and wrapped the strip of cloth around her wrist many times until she had used up half the length in doing so. "Now you," she said, indicating I should repeat her actions from my end. I thought of the mother, so long gone, her soft hands gentle on my brow. I thought of the day she had died and we had come into the village, Caratan and I, walking as children bound by fate. I thought of the grandmother who had taken us in and called us her own. I thought of the teachers who had taken us under their wing and made of us what we were. I thought of the man and the children, their faces now turned inward to the hearth. I thought of the long days and cold nights that would be our only solace in this wood. "No fire?" I asked. "No fire," she answered. I wrapped the strip of cloth around my wrist many times until I had used up half the length in doing so. We were, now, one hand, joined by the tattered cloth, Caratan and I. So did we walk through the wood, two as one, Caratan: the wind and rain and sound of far off thunder and I: the wild within. ---- Today we are one as we were then, as we have always been and always will be. For most days in time I am a woman and lead a woman's life. I tend the hearth and children, join in the gathering and prepare the meat brought in from the hunt. They call me Caratan'n and hold me as their own. I sit before the fire and tell the tales when the quiet times demand. I sing in the morning with the birds and when the storm comes I walk restless upon the land. My mate smiles fondly upon me, then, and puts his arms around me in love. He tends to the children's needs and tells them that I am a goddess come from the wood. -- Gay Bost ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ The Sour Sweetness of Tobacco ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ clinging to your fingers no matter how many times you soap your hands in ritual lather you cannot erase those brown stains of a life marked by choices: What color will my next lover be What space will we inhabit Whether dreaming to carry his lust to term or to consciously abort. Now only in the course of a dream or a dreamt of visit in phone calls and letters we chart each others progress through foreign places. Our litany of being: We are stretched across a cable under the ocean voices pressured, muted, stressed by the slow weighted water poured in a basin. You are the ghost at the other end of the cable your voice a fist closed on my heart. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Gifts? ~~~~~ I What can I give you? The sign a deaf poetess makes for a swan? And what can I bring? A brass pipe shared by brothers in a land of dreams? Is there no contentment in the arrival of empty hands? II My father's hands were always full once, with ripe peaches freshly picked. Now, empty they carry all my sustenance for a life time of longing for an uncommon journey. III If I bring you a flower for your first and only daughter will I buy your love? And will love bought sustain? IV Here it is all I have just this: warm flesh a beating heart. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Expatriote ~~~~~~~~~~ Guilt is born out of a taste for flesh the methods of slaughtering veal (young bulls fattened on milk feet permanently off the ground, sky-laden with death) like the distance within from your home. The yellow-striped distance of a two-laned highway stretched across the bush remembered from some time spent elsewhere. An elsewhere where bulls and most people keep their feet firmly on the ground. Home that seem so distant, almost as if you've never been there and still you know you haven't left. (vacations in foreign countries don't count, neither does the number of Japanese, Spanish or African lovers you've split the darkness with). II I think I remember most the preoccupation with other things; the smell of pipe smoke, the scent of a certain breeze at a certain time of year, the feel of a cat's fur rubbing against your bare foot. The sound of exotic instruments; sitars, ocarinas, dulcimers, whispering with a somehow ordered passion. The sight of a street-light hanging over a dwarfed building, the dark shapes of trees moving behind. Electric moon suspended on a pole against a black felt sky. I remember most the constant, well-planned electricity of it all. The underlying tension of power. III The question of power; the ability to stand, to push back the weight of air, to maintain a distance between yourself and the ground, sharp edges, God, death. The ability of a "nation" to hold itself in quotes, to hold its Blacks, Chicanos and poor Whites in the parenthesis of a ghetto or a backwoods hamlet adorned with weeds and a 57 Chevy on blocks. The left-overs of forty acres and a mule per man. (women don't rate: something there about the "weaker" sex?). IV My parenthesis here consist of the educated few and a fellowship stipend. With these, and a poem or two, I manage to enclose myself, hold out the poverty around me and the politics (except when walking with my African lover at night, the police here take a dim view of the unidentifiable; my girlfriend and poetry are in that class). Some "chai" and fifteen minutes of persuasion settle them. Walking in the dark spaces of Nairobi at night can be a crime. My feet are still above the ground, like the veal-calf, sky-laden with death. Do gods still look down and occasionally mingle with the living? Usually only for a profit or the easing of guilt. The gods, like the dispossessed, cling to things. . . cars, houses, a piece of land guilt, a sitar, an ocarina, a dulcimer. Someone else's bread. -- Ron Tisdale ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Untitled ~~~~~~~~ The breath within flesh gives motion. Surround breath with the flesh of trees, spin threads of muscle from the guts of the earth, the sound calls up spirits in the shapes of animals they glide into being just under the thin edge of mind. -- Ron Tisdale ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ THE CABIN ~~~~~~~~~ A cabin so bleak on a cold winters plain Curled up in a ball in a corner he's lain. Conscious thought faded, fled his tired head, An old log of wood is where he rested his head. But dreams kept on coming, in his now final sleep The thoughts of his life into dreams they did creep. He dreamed of a fire so warm and so bright, Yet, even in dreams he was left without fight. Soon the ending would come and the darkness enfold, What was left of his life in this humble abode. But how did he come to this time and this place, To lay on this filthy floor and fade away in disgrace? Was it life just in general, or that of his making That led him to now and this cold undertaking? The wind as a banshee just screams through the night, Leaving him without thought on his final flight. As he lay there his cloths covered with frost, His dreams turned to life and the things he had lost. Not material things that the foolish must hold, But things of the heart, of compassion untold. His dreams turned to life, to surviving this waist, But they were just dreams, and left him in haste. Then entered his dreams, a feeling so warm, Outside the wind blew in this raging winters storm. Could it still be dreams that encircled his head, Or was the warmth turning real, was he really not dead. Curled up in a ball in a corner he's lain But his body is tingling, it now feels pain. Could someone have come, lit a fire in the hearth Or was it's deaths way of coming with it's dark mirth. His cloths where now moist, the frost melted away, But why was it happening on this cold day? A stirring he heard as he lay on the floor, A sure sounding foot as it entered the door. Burdened with wood and straight for the fire, To build it up more, make it roar even higher. But who was this person, this angel of love, Surly with grace then and sent from above. The old man just stirring, his legs stretched way out. If he had yet the strength, he'd of got up to shout. Yet thankfulness engulfed him as there he lay, Feeling warm one more time, and with nothing to say. Yet the thoughts in his head were confusing as best. Who had now come to answer his final prayers request? -- Bill Shultz ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── THE WIND ~~~~~~~~ The wind howls across the frigid snow crested plain. The wind comes to you, to fill you with pain. It will seep into your body, it finds it's own way, Bringing with it a chill, a chill that will stay. Turn your back to the wind, go find yourself cover. Turn away from it's sharpness, as around you it hovers. Your feet crunch along through the crust of the snow. Leave the wind at you back and away form it go. Ahhh, the safety of a cabin lay here on our way But alas, no smoke from the chimney on so cold a day. I knock on the door, comes no sound from within. As the wind rushes stronger, with a hell of a din. As I push on the door it creaks open with a sigh. Yet the scene from within isn't nice to the eye. The cabin is dark; dank and moist from the cold But enter I do, though I'm not really bold. The furniture here is all raged and torn The cabin is old, the interior well worn. A fire's what I need in the hearth by the wall. So I gather some wood, stack it up real tall. But alas, as I look, my matches are wet, No fire for me now, the cold is here with me yet. I've grown very weary on my quest to find heat, I'm so tired now I find I can't stay on my feet. I curl up in a ball, in a corner to find The sleep of the endless, let its coming be kind. For my journey has ended, I can't go anymore, As I drop to my knees and curl up on the floor. But what is that I hear, is that a crunch in the snow? Has someone come by, will the heat in here flow? Yet the door hasn't moved, no one enters this day. My parting thoughts have now ended as I now drift away. The wind through the cracks of the cabin does blow, It howls in it's sorrow, and away it does go....... -- Bill Shultz ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── THE NIGHT ~~~~~~~~~ It is a cold, dark, ugly night Nothing can penetrate the black. Cold drizzle soaks through my cloths, As I wait for the final attack. I shiver as I lay here Covered with muck and mud. Dreaming I was somewhere else, Somewhere out of this crud. Our numbers, they are much to few But we'll hold them as long as we can. No, I don't want to be someplace else We have to hold this piece of land. A flare goes up, it lights the sky, We know the time has come. Check our weapons one more time For the battle has begun. The chatter of the 60 Up in the tower so high, Spiting death upon the ground So many now will die. They're at the wire, coming on We hit the claymore switch. Kill the stinking screaming devils Make their life a real bitch. But on they come, there is no stop As our 16's start to fire. Pour death upon these little men Don't let them through the wire. Then up above we hear the din Of an airplane in the sky. "Where do you want it," the pilot asks, I'll help you make them die. Smoky's here, he makes a pass His mini-guns cry out. Raining death upon the ground From those deadly little snouts. Morning breaks upon the land Another night gone by. Doing what we're paid to do, Making other people die. The bodies scattered on the ground All covered with blood and gore. And friends I knew not long ago, Have knocked on heavens door. It didn't take to long this night To make the devils scatter. Moping up is all that's left Does any of this matter? For tomorrow we must leave this place Just give it all right back. But no matter where we are tonight We'll wait for another attack. -- Bill Shultz ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Apprentice to Deception ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An Apprentice to Deception By the Learning of the Loom Weaving patterns out of pictures, Out of treacherous perfume The Pretense of a Pretender With his eyes of sugared glass Uses venomous charisma Dissect target, capture fast- Enemy to Intuition Muffling its warning cries With a dance of cold seduction Promised Love that buries Lies.. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Angel, ~~~~~ A year has passed or more, Since your tale I learned, And I was concerned. Not knowing why I did, I told you my secret, That I did not regret. You knew it had hurt me, that dark secret I told, Not a word you sold. A Bard has a dream, a story to share the pain, and in history remain. Many things have changed, For me as well as you, And now I can see anew. A Bard has a nightmare, A story he knows too well, and he cannot tell. -- Alvin Brinson ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Sun & Moon ~~~~~~~~~~ sun and moon dark and light this is our love you and me on the shore strange pair to see yet look now where are you i can not see who is he do you know it kills me now you with him dark and light we are no more sun and moon dark and light this was our love sun and moon..... -- Alvin Brinson ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── The Midnite Sun ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thou art the Dark Angel, thy curse bestowed on thee by thy nature need not be thy end. Thou wishest a bard to be, I say thou art, for thy tales are yet strong and true, and showeth thy heart. For thy curse stops thee not, thou knowest thyself; yet thou admits not: thou art thyself a bard. For thy curse for all its pain has given thee the power and reign over any bard like me, Lady, canst this thou not see? Beside thine, my lady, all my tales of light dim by thy tales spun by thee, the Midnite Sun. -- Alvin Brinson ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Climactic Catch ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As if it comes and as it will and always does it's that a man that drowns in the bluest blue sees the bloom- like push-up sooner and soon we are as he and the moment is softly yon. -- V.A. Blevins ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Rush To Rush (Ode to Rush Limbaugh) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The rotund undisputed king of the radiowaves, Rush Limbaugh and his merry court of ditto heads. A man and his followers Liberals have come to hate, Someone those on the left fear and the feminazi dreads. This undeniable talent that is on loan from God, His ideals and views that many of us also hold dear. Rush has found the truth through the psycho babble, America, the way it ought to be, has Democrats in fear. The liberal press and their bias slant on the news, Aren't able to get away with it with Rush around. Their efforts thwarted and their views being exposed, All of them just come crashing down to the ground. Updates on feminists, animal rights, and Democrats, Keeps us all informed as what they are up to now. They are over, but they just don't know it yet, The left just doesn't seem it get it somehow. Dean for the Institute for Advanced Conservative studies, Professor Limbaugh teaches values of the American way. His uncanny ability to expose the lies and tell the truth, Helps the millions who hear, make through yet another day. Rush Limbaugh is by far the most feared man in America, His highest regard for the military is easy to see. For I admit that I too am a mind numb robot ditto head, And I do thank God that Rush Limbaugh is on the E.I.B. -- Terry A. Long ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ i expected it sooner ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ it's okay, i've been here before. the din of the fan. a whine of the fluorescent light. the wind is blowing, through my little piece of desolation. it's cold, or it feels like it - i really don't know. if i close my eyes, i can't hear a thing ... not a thing beyond the fan and the flickering lights. it's dark in here, or so it feels - not really sure anymore. cracking open my eyes, and there's still nothing to see. guess i've been building sandcastles in the surf too long. and the lights stare back, and the fan's din, and the blast of the air. and everything has a purpose, and i know that too well, and ... and there's still nothing here, and there never was. it's okay, i've lived here before. -Igal Koshevoy (M^TR) July 5, 1995; 12:48a ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Disengaged ~~~~~~~~~~ I wasn't allowed to live with "Larry" in the apartment above the Mambo Club until we got married. But it didn't seem polite to ask when that would be: mother said *never pressure a man.* He wanted me to wear pretty things and dance for the customers, show them what I was made of. He bought me costumes and thought it was precious that I refused to wear them. I "modeled" one, the least I could do, and he started tearing strips of masking tape with his teeth. He stuck red balloons on my chilly polka-dot bikini and tummy. The customers could bust a balloon for a buck. He had to bloody my nose that first night. I stared at the spotlight like it was God. Like it hated me. Did my routines on the stage and then on the floor, dancing through lit cigarettes jabbing at my balloons, white explosions stinging my eyes, arms over head, spinning, trying to smile, men laughing about popping my cherry. I thought they meant balloons, something plural. When they were all were busted, I ran in my room, tore the shrunken rubber off me and tried to change but my blouse stuck to me, everything stuck to me. All I could think was *no more* but never made it past the kitchen. He said he didn't like to hit me but it sure felt like he did. I laid my hand inside the mark his had left on my cheek. My palm cooled, absorbed the rough red swell of his heat. Then came flowers and milk and soft kisses and tickles. Lipstick and chocolate and ribbons of lies. Desperation has no memory. -- Kathy J. Kramer ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── She's Not A Little Girl Anymore! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My crying was no good for business, so Larry, my "fiancee" and boss, let me wear a leotard instead of a bikini under red balloons I wore for his customers to bust with lit cigarettes while I danced. One night some guy got real ugly after he paid and popped his way to my skin and found the leotard instead, so he bent me over a table. When Larry tried to get him off me, I felt a slivery edge against my neck *back off or I'll cut her* and everything got real quiet except for the sound of my leotard being cut. When I heard his zipper ripping open, I was grateful that he was behind me. There was this thump and squishing, like a truck tire on a kitty's belly only the driver keeps going, reverse forward reverse forward reverse. I remember sitting on the cold plastic seat of a squad car drinking my first cup of coffee. I felt the restless itch of blood drying as police drove me to the hospital. They needed what was left of my costume and wanted pictures of my front, with the hospital gown open, for evidence. I only let them photograph my black eye from when my cheek cracked on the table. They said it wouldn't be enough and left. As the doctor snapped on rubber gloves, his eyes never stopped questioning me. He smiled, *Did he come inside you?* "I think so, well, I mean, he was." He threw his head back in a laugh that exposed every filling in his teeth, *You don't even know what I'm talking about.* How could he think I didn't know? And he fingered my sores, hard, asking if they hurt. He patted my head and pushed me back on the examining table's crinkly wax paper I confused with my skin. Bones broke when he separated my knees. I felt hot light and a breeze as he whistled, his slippery blue-white fingers hurting me all over again. I kept thinking *it can't last forever* Larry couldn't marry me knowing his friends saw what happened. And no judge would convict the guy considering what I looked like and what I was doing with it. Larry was real nice, said *that's a girl* when I smiled, told me to relax and work in the kitchen. Mother's letter said work hard and don't worry, men marry all kinds these days. She sent money in case I was with child, said *you're as grown as a woman gets.* -- Kathy J. Kramer ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Twinkle Toes ~~~~~~~~~~~~ I was washing dishes one slow night, watching the thin skin of soap bubbles pop and lose their color to the air. As a truck drove by the window, I looked up into high beams and thought of a new name: *Mazzie Starr.* *Mazzie Starr* was too glamorous to be pushed around. I'd claw and crawl my way to the top, be independent. No one would be able to touch me. As soon as I found out I wasn't pregnant from when that guy got mad at me, I took the money my mom sent to Linette Lovejoy's Studio of the Dance. Mom's letter said "it" happened to her and a lot of other girls. Forget about it or it would keep happening men could smell it on you. But Mazzie Starr would dazzle them, show them I wasn't just some stinkin' broad. People would come to see the fancy steps I learned while dancing on bright yellow mats covered with a man's footprints. In the movies, no one danced without a crowd of couples clapping. I had no idea how far away Hollywood was. My audience was the same old men with soggy chunks of cigar on their lips grinning while the young ones hollered *take it off take it off.* I did my "Happy Talk" number and they laughed. *Where were the tap-dancing sailors who won wars and knocked on doors while hiding flowers behind their backs?* The worse things get, the fewer questions you ask. Chin up, toes pointed, shuffle ball change and a cha cha cha. -- Kathy J. Kramer ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Liberation ~~~~~~~~~~ Larry lost The Mambo Club to Bruno, an out-of-towner who called me a dish. He had the old neon sign removed, put up his own 'The Piranha Lounge'. "The" and "Lounge" were a harmless blue and "Piranha" was a thick, vicious red. Nicki, his girlfriend, lived with him but they weren't even married. Her red hair was full of breezes like her hollow eyes. Everything about her was easy the way she talked, the way she sipped highballs, lit cigarettes, fingered the naked pages of Bruno's magazines. He told her to break me in while he remodeled. I would've given anything to be just like her but hated her kind of dancing and costumes. The backsides were completely cut out. And when her top came off, white circles the size of communion wafers covered the tips of her breasts. She hula-hooped her hips, pouted her lips. The guys would start hollering but soon got real quiet, like any noise would strangle every remaining ounce of air from their hollow mouths. She tried showing me how to do it, but I couldn't forget about being half- naked. My knees abandoned me. I smiled like a ballerina with blistered lips and missing teeth. She said "I felt just like you did at first" and could tell I didn't believe her. She slammed her drink down, told me to grow the fuck up, "they ain't coming to watch you *dance*, you know?" Up at Bruno's apartment, she made me my first pitcher of Harvey Wallbangers and showed some adult movies she starred in. I felt like an idiot for being so embarrassed. If she could do that, I could be a go-go dancer. She said you get used to it. I'd been at the bar long enough to figure she was probably right. Her and Bruno went in the bedroom. When I heard her screaming more I hurried downstairs into the Sunday night silence of the empty bar. Alone, I loved being fucked-up, being fed-up and glad, so full of shit that nothing mattered *free.* I wanted music so loud I couldn't hear inside my head. Like Nicki said, if you can't beat it, fuck it. How could relief be wrong? I walked onto the hollow stage and became a real woman like Nicki. I slipped out of my clothes and into one of her G-strings covered with blue sequins the color of true blood, before it's exposed to the air. I pulled its stiff strap slowly inside me and danced like my body was a charm to tempt men into killing me: an unhappy woman's final victory. It was easy until the bar was full, until I lost my shirt in a room full of eyes that tattooed my skin with invisible holes. I wanted the men to grab me so I could feel on the outside what I felt on the inside. Maybe then I would've known it was real. Maybe then I would've stopped. -- Kathy J. Kramer ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Like *Gone,* Baby ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Psychedelic lights swirled peace and love over flat-black walls that absorbed everything. America was free to be as ugly as she wanted. I did the pony and the jerk but nobody paid attention to my dancing even before I stripped. Sitting at a table, trying to hustle drinks off truckdrivers, I'd wrap my palms around candles in glass covered with white plastic netting that softened in the hum of flame absorbing air. When I got drunk, Bruno thought I was crazy, walking to each table, sniffing dirty roses like the Queen of Sheeba in my feather boa, gently bending over to enjoy them, getting my fanny spanked by men that Nicki set me up with. I learned why men love cars. They trap women in them and call it a date. After a few, I quit fighting so it wouldn't hurt when I peed the next day. Nicki taught me about love. In order to love a man, you gotta act like a man which makes it impossible to love anyone. She turned tricks to buy fancy toilet water and said it was a shame that I didn't have the heart of a whore. I thought she meant I didn't have a heart. I should have known she'd be leaving, should have known why she had to keep moving: *Go Go Girl.* -- Kathy J. Kramer ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Gnosis I ~~~~~~ She is like a torn bit of skin, A ripple of the light On a dusty lake. We were like the sun and moon, we Danced upside down across the floor, we Broke Marriage vows together, we Spoke profane sentences on the altar And then like a spindle cog We ate the bread we had desecrated, Spoke the words that we both so loathed. Wore the chains we had just removed. And I in my sudden missing entrapment Had the nerve to wonder just why The lights were still on when you left. ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Gnosis: (Incarnation II) ~~~~~~ Intrepid! They called at my name, Unbound by the void corpses That rule the greater cemetery of your world. And in this profane glory, MAN UNSEEN, we raped this world, rich in its wonder, And bartered for its souls in secure depravity. But we are the liars, The festers of a wounded world choking On the blood of its magical elixir, Fat with the excesses of this Unholy despite: And in my arrogance, I, Sanctified this heathen communion. I, Became everything That inspires my soul to retching bitterness And delivered to a monster such as you, A monster such as my self, My soul. And in ignorant, Ruined pride, I wept, Not for your leaving, But my empty dream. ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Gnosis: (Incarnation III) ~~~~~~ As awakened at the last sunrise, in tears of unsettled change, I am unclean. The world had become a theatre Of my own destitute excesses, And you, as the queen of the self-same excesses, Had become a lover in the despite that I, The hanging fool, Had given you in my sullen bitterness. And in this corrupted silence, This stinging awakening, I wonder just who I would have become. I wonder just how I would have spared my flesh from my own demoniac nature. I think it unfair, I didn't think at all. -- Judas Leiken ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ "I went down into the garden of nuts...." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There was the orchard, old and brittle the trees Gone wild the fruit which grew on these And she wept as she went, her burden heavy Her feet caked with mud from the dark levy. Lay she down weary there, heavy with birth There 'neath the apple tree, woman to earth. No legend to lead, no tradition to teach Woman to earth, she, without man to beseech Alone in the myth which time passes over To birth a babe, among millions, hapless rover. Get cherished within, more precious than gold The lover long gone, his heart grown cold. She weeps in the birthing, cries in the pain On the hill above Blessing the cross rises again In the dawning they'll come, good books held tight Never knowing what has passed below in the night. A birthing more ancient, a legend once told A place of succour, woman to earth, life's hold. She listens and looks to that which sings high An angel, a goddess, wings unfurled, come nigh Chill blossoms drift down, set free by a touch A coverlet of hope shed so on even one such Here, in the orchard, into the garden of nuts A child born free from the cold stone huts. To the angel, to the goddess, wings spread wide Still bloody with birthing on her delicate hide Blessing's fresh born babe, hid well from new kings Sheltered and sung to 'neath the rainbow's wings. Come forth to a world where she has little worth Come forth from her mother, comes woman, to earth. -- Gay Bost 'For in the days when Pharaoh cruel decree doomed infant sons to death, Jewish mothers would wander far into the woods, and give birth in stealth under the fragrant and friendly boughs of the apple trees. They were not alone. For the angels themselves came down to help and comfort those lorn ladies'. ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╤══╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╒══╕ ╒══╕ ╤══╕ ═╤═ ╤══╕ ╒═╤═╕ ╤ ╤ ╒═╤═╕ ╞══╛ │ │ ╘══╕ │ -ps- ╘══╕ │ ╞═╤╛ │ ╞══╛ │ │ │ │ │ │ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╘══╛ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧═ ═╧═ ╧ ╧ ╘══╛ ╧ ╧ ╧ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ Innocence Lost (Oklahoma City) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Innocent children, mothers, and fathers, Victims of a tragic and cowardly act. Tears for the children freely flow, Feel lost and confused, I numbly react. Killing innocent people in the Name of God, What happened to; Thou Shall Not Kill? Why are they allowed to get away with it, Terrorists killing anyone they want at will. Angels welcoming all the innocent souls, An event that invokes deep inner thought. Something evil can't stand peace somehow, The answers become mute and naught. I really don't understand this at all, Just what is gained by killing anyone? Some fundamentalist or extreme cause, Children shouldn't die, but play and fun. How many more innocent lives before it's enough, I pray someday everyone will see the light. Saw the pain and devastation this brought on, My prayers go out to Oklahoma city tonight. (May the grace of God bless your souls. Amen) -- Terry A. Long, 1995 ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗ ║ 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 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. Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area, an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences, anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends. For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out. Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams echo, and you're questions shall be solved. The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this 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 Bulletin Board Systems. I 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 download the whole network, 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 Centipede; simply dial up BITTER BUTTER BBS at 1-503-692-5841, enter "downloader" as the name, and "guest" as the password for fast access. If you are interested in joining Centipede, please fill out the following form and email it to Tom Almy at 1:105/290. +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | THE CENTIPEDE NETWORK APPLICATION FORM | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | Systems Name: system's name | | BBS Software: system software & version | | Main Board #: full public main data number | | Modem Speeds: protocol & uncompressed modem speed | | Fidonet Adrs: system's Fidonet address | | Sysop's Name: full real name | | Sysop E-mail: sysop's email address | | Sysop Voice#: sysop's full voice phone number | | Sysop D.O.B.: date of birth | | Sysop Address: street address | | Sysop Address: city/state/zip code/country | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ [ YGDRASIL INTERNET ] ▀▀▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ RESOURCES The collection of Ygdrasil Press is now available on Internet through the World-Wide Web, accessible as "http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil". This site contains the collections as: 8-bit MS-DOS ASCII text, universal 7-bit ASCII, ANSI color graphics, GIF pictures, word-processor laid-out files and other goodies. The entire collection can also be accessed by FTP as "ftp://ftp.rdrop.com/pub/users/igal/ygdrasil". Each month, the Ygdrasil Magazine is posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.arts.poems. We hope this will give readers a break from having to dial long distance and figure out which BBS has Ygdrasil available for them; provide a more intimate link to the world outside our beloved Centipede; and increase & broaden the audience & coverage of Ygdrasil to better serve the readers. E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL Any person that can access Internet e-mail (ie. FidoNet, Prodigy, AOL) can access Ygdrasil's online resources. To get a E-MAIL USER'S GUIDE TO YGDRASIL GUIDE, send e-mail to the Internet address "listproc@www0.cern.ch" (if you don't know how to send Internet e-mail, please ask your system administrator for instructions). In the message, leave the subject line blank, and in the body enter two lines into the message: "www http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil/wwwmail.html" and on the second line "quit". The Guide will be waiting in your e-mailbox within a day. NOTE: CASE IS SIGNIFICANT - "www" is not the same as "WWW"; if you don't type it the exactly same way, your request will fail. COMMENTS Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its contents: Internet: klaus.gerken@bbs.synapse.net Igal Koshevoy, Production Editor and Distribution Coordinator - for submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access. Igal's PGP key is available on request to ensure privacy of transaction. Internet: igal@agora.rdrop.com Fidonet: Igal Koshevoy, 1:105/290 We'd love to hear from you! ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ ▄▄ █ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ █ █ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄█ █▄▄█ ▄█▄▄█ █ █▄ █ █ ▄▄▄█ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ ▄▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ░▒▓█ █▄▄█ █ █ █▄█▄ █ █ █ █▄▄█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ ░▒▓█ █ █▄▄█ █▄▄█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ █▄▄▄ █ █ █ ▄█▄ █▄▄█ █ █▄█ ░▒▓█ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄ ░▒▓█ █ █ █▄▄▄ █ ░▒▓█ █▄▄▄ ▄█▄ ▄▄▄█ █ ░▒▓█ THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ 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 THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken 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 $5.00 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: $2.50 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 Revision Systems BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participating BBS. Revisions, though, holds the official version of Ygdrasil. ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ╓──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╥ ┬ ╥──┐ ─╥─ ╓─── ╥ ┬ ╓─╥─┐ ║ ║ │ ╟──┘ ╙──┤ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ ┌┐ ╟──┤ ║ ╙──┘ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╥─ ╓─╖ ┬ ╥──┐ ╓──┐ ╥──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ╓──┐ ╓─╥─┐ ─╥─ ╓──┐ ╓─╖ ┬ ║ ║ ║ │ ╟─ ║ │ ╟─┬┘ ║ ║ │ ╟──┤ ║ ║ ║ │ ║ ║ │ ─╨─ ╨ ╙─┘ ╨ ╙──┘ ╨ ┴─ ╨ ╨ ┴ ╨ ┴ ╨ ─╨─ ╙──┘ ╨ ╙─┘ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994 and 1995 by Klaus J. Gerken. The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or anything else appropriate should be addressed, with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: ┌────────────────────────────┐ │ YGDRASIL PRESS ███ │ │ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. │ │ OTTAWA, ONTARIO │ │ CANADA, K2P 0C7 │ └────────────────────────────┘ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════