Robert Beckvall

Home , Mellow Yellow

July 2021

VOL XXIX, Issue 7, Number 339

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

European Editor: Mois Benarroch

Contributing Editor: Jack R. Wesdorp

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena; Oswald Le Winter; Heather Ferguson; Patrick White

ISSN 1480-6401

harry k stammer

Alexei Vesselov

Michael Lee Johnson

Gabriel Rosenstock George Gad Economou

Fabrice B. Poussin Mark Young

Dan Hereford Marcus Bales Robert Beckvall

harry k stammer

"stop the violence?" rolling little trucks (concrete’d) scraping (once) track tire "since the sense" (attacking him) "that powder on your nose" centered on XZ^& “come on Frank!”

(the siege)

"that’s where I think you need to find jesus soon…" (does it) waking up early staying inside by the dog (blanket, baby) out in the

yelling

"fuck you, though" a barnyard cat whole points (fever) "ten cent" [table keys] "not sainted up" back down the stairs ||: clomp:|| hand in the wet "oh, troubled?" not divide (ing) "a, ah" not moment (for) "but necessary" back young (er) and which that (in it) would "from a working" (in and out)

Alexei Vesselov

ANOTHER HUNDRED QUESTIONS TO MARCEL DUCHAMP (Shigeko Kubota, Nam June Paik and John Cage can also answer if they want)

1. What’s going on?

2. What was your deepest feeling?

3. Do you feel good in the spring?

4. Which cake is the most delicious one?

5. What is feeling?

6. What have you done for art at your age?

7. What is it all for?

8. What did you dream about today?

9. What question haven’t you been asked yet?

10. Sometimes you pour boiling water into a cup, and the label of the tea bag dives directly into the cup and you need to get it out with your fingers or a fork, does it really annoy you?

11. Do you love art within you or yourself in art or someone else?

12. Have you ever been asked the previous question?

13. What does it mean “to be able to feel deeply”?

14. What would you take on a hike?

15. Should we fight silence?

16. In which ear is it ringing?

17. How often have you lost your umbrella? Did you find it later? Did you regret the loss? If you were sorry, then for how long?

18. When you are alone with John Doe, what do you say to him?

19. Do you think you and I would have had a decent conversation?

20. Do you owe something to society or does society owe you everything?

21. Are you tired of answering questions?

22. Do you like what a question mark looks like?

23. Are you ashamed to ask for a fork in an oriental restaurant or do you proudly eat with chopsticks? (Kubota and Pike don’t have to answer)

24. Do you often go to the post office, and they are on a break?

25. How much time do you need to decide in which trash can should you throw the garbage?

26. How did you answer the question “what is your favorite color?” when you where a kid? What do you answer now?

27. Who is your favorite YouTube blogger?

28. Are there many global problems?

29. Why did Mugi-chan steal a strawberry from Mio-chan’s cake?

30. Do you have socially acceptable hobbies that are not related to art?

31. Do you happen to have socially unacceptable ones?

32. How many titles are on your anime-watched list?

33. Do you like to draw?

34. Don’t you think that technical professionals often claim to be more competent in art than artists?

35. Do you always check the expiration date on the goods you buy in the supermarket?

36. When you wake up in the morning, do you immediately get up or do you sit on the bed, sighing and looking around with an absent-minded expression?

37. What should art be in our era?

38. How many cups of tea (coffee) do you drink daily?

39. Why is summer so attractive?

40. Can you roughly feel what time it is now?

41. Video or audio?

42. When you abruptly close your eyes in a bright room, bizarre colored spots appear before your inner gaze. Which one is your favorite?

43. Can you remember at least one anecdote about art curators?

44. Is it difficult for you to get the last pickled cucumber out of the jar? The last peach from the can?

45. Would you take part in the last Venice Biennale if you had the opportunity?

46. What is your attitude towards realistic sex dolls (Real Doll and others)?

47. Have you ever heard anything about Ingria?

48. Do you try not to make a lot of noise in the bathroom when at somebody else’s house?

49. Is video art dead?

50. Why do so many people hate pineapple pizza?

INTERMISSION

51. Do you like log houses?

52. You have to walk on a surface with clearly delineated squares (ceramic tiles, parquet). What do you do?

53. “Bad taste” – what is it? Does it have anything to do with cooking?

54. Do you always manage to open the package of a chocolate bar at once? Do you sometimes use scissors?

55. You are in a public restroom which is empty. Will you use a near or a far urinal (toilet stall)?

56. Is the Helvetica font really that good?

57. YouTube video hosting is kind of like “for everyone”. Vimeo seems to be more “elite”. What kind of hosting do you choose for your work?

58. How much time per day do you need to be alone?

59. How often do you have to clean the shower drain?

60. Does contemporary music have a future?

61. How are you?

62. With what kind of feeling do you usually look at the last bus that you are missing?

63. How would you answer one of the most popular questions of the Google search engine – “Why they invented love?”

64. What do you think about current trends in woodworking?

65. Do you easily move to another apartment or take a long time to say goodbye to the previous one?

66. At what age did you feel the call of the talent within yourself for the first time?

67. What was the most painful experience you had long ago (in your childhood), which you forgot for a long time, but recently recalled it and felt a sudden string of unpleasant memories?

68. Do you boast of your successes in front of people who know nothing about art?

69. Do you often need a stepladder?

70. Do you buy ready-to-cook food?

71. What is your innocent, yet a little bit shameful, pleasure?

72. Poetry: a useless thing, or a delight, that only a few people can enjoy?

73. Why is chess out of fashion?

74. What to do in winter?

75. Are you looking forward to the beginning of the cancan at “Orphée aux enfers” or to listening to the entire overture closely?

76. Are feelings important?

77. Is body hair an atavism? What hair must be cut, what shaved off and what can be left?

78. What are the differences between “this” and “that”?

79. Do you carry a piece of extra toilet paper with you?

80. Does humanity have a future?

81. Do you feel ashamed of something that does not seem embarrassing to others?

82. 50/50? 60/40? 40/80?

83. “Girls, what flowers do you prefer this season?” How do you feel about this question, published in the early version of the Internet service “Life Journal”? How would you answer it (putting yourself in the shoes of hypothetical girls)?

84. Do you feel a little uncomfortable when you look in the eyes of someone’s dog, which is tied near the store impatiently waiting for its master?

85. What does it mean “to help a person”?

86. What, in fact, is the point of the questions in public interviews? Do the reporter and viewers want to hear something new, or just confirmation of their own thoughts?

87. What is eternal and what is transient?

88. How do you feel when you are asked about “global challenges to humanity”?

89. Do you flinch when you hear a sound that resembles the sound of your name?

90. What’s good about fall?

91. What is better: constantly sharpening a wooden pencil or constantly changing pencil leads in a mechanical one?

92. Do you tend to feel guilty after a long nap?

93. “Alexander the Great made five campaigns. On which of them did he die?” or “Which is heavier: a kilogram of fluff or a kilogram of nails?” – how do you answer these or similar questions? Why such a questions are being asked at all and what can one learn from the answers to them?

94. Does it annoy you when the strings of tea bags get tangled in the box?

95. What novelties of science amaze you?

96. What do you feel when you hear the smell of food cooking from someone else’s window?

97. What question did you ask yourself the morning after graduation from school (elementary school, college, institute)?

98. Do you fantasize about getting the Nobel Prize?

99. Do you consider many commercials to be masterpieces? Which ones, modern or from the 90s?

100. What would you choose: digital or analog video if you had to make this choice once and for all?

Michael Lee Johnson

Native I Am, Cocopa (V3)

Now once-great events fading into seamless history, I am a mother, proud. My native numbers are few. In my heart digs many memories forty-one relatives left in 1937. Decay is all left of their bones, memories. I pinch my dark skin. I dig earthworms farm dirt from my fingertips grab native Baja and Southwestern California, its soil and sand wedged between my spaced teeth. I see the dancing prayers of many gods. I am Cocopa, a remnant of the Yuman family. I extend my mouth into forest fires Colorado rivers, trout-filled mountain streams. I survive on corn, melons, and pumpkins, mesquite beans. I still, dance in grass skirts drink a hint of red Sonora wine.

I am a mother, proud. I am parchment from animal earth.

Note: This is the story poem of the Cocopah Indian tribe and their journey over the years. The River People descended from the greater Yuman-speaking area, which occupied lands along the Colorado River. The Cocopah Indian tribe had no written language. However, historical records have been passed on orally and by outside visitors. Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada, Vietnam era.

Juice Box Girl (After Midnight Moments)

I'm a juice box girl, squeeze me, play me like an accordion, box-shaped, but gagged edges. Breathe me inside out, I'm nude, fruity, fractured, strawberry melon, nightshade wine. Chicago, 3:00 a.m. somewhere stranded someone's balcony memories undefined, you will find me there stretched naked, doing the Electric Slide, taking morning selfies upward morning into the sun then in shutters closeout pictures Chiquita bananas, those Greek lovers running late, Little Village, Greektown so many men's night faces fading out. Wash cleanse in me. I'm no Sylvia Plath in an oven image of death I resuscitate; I'm still alive.

Sweet Nectar (V2)

Daddy wants to see a hummingbird. Ruby-throated hummingbird devil in feathers, Illinois baby come to me, challenge my feeder sip up, drain nectar, no straw needed. You are a master of your craft. My thumb, your measurements your brain 1-grain size white rice the same as mine. Your vision impeccable clean your glasses thick and sticky, murky migration into your miracle little boy prove 2 me you are the real Wild Bill Hickok dancing with your Calamity Jane tick tock, a year there, year back, 3,000 miles across the saltwater the route to Mexico, traveler landing South America, shake the dice, toss them you bandit. Will you return hummingbird daddy is on the blender, mixing new formulas bright new color nectar.

Rochdale College Freedom School, I Exiled in Time Toronto, Canada (1972)

Chased by this wild, I was a black wolf of time freedom extinguished me- I died on borrowed time, I died on hashish, I died on snorting cocaine, I died on the “H” man, heroin, LSD, acid passed around hallucinated me into Disneyland without my house slippers. I nearly jumped 18 floors without hemp, straight down breaking through plate glass, Jesus’ invisible was my invincible Superman. I nearly died listening to American Woman, Guess Who, they feed me downers for my overdose. I nearly died in a small room balling an unknown little bitch from Montreal. All those little pills in dresser drawers, yellow, pink, and red. I nearly died, Yonge Street, with hippy beads, leather purse, belt, fake gold chain, and small pocket change. I went the way I didn’t know where to go, searching for heaven ending at the entrance hells gate, Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Let me fluoresce, splatter red on the asphalt of my exiled heart. Let me follow the freedom school, Summerhill, England, free love.

(Note: Rochdale College was patterned after Summerhill School- Democratic “freedom school” in England founded in 1921 by Alexander Sutherland Neill with the belief that the school should be made to fit the child, rather than the other way around.)

Ekphrastic tanka by Gabriel Rosenstock

In Irish and English Versions in Twi by Adjei Agyei-Baah

factory-in-the-moonlight-by-maximilien-luce-1898 bhí brionglóid agam faoi sheanmhonarcha, a chuid bhascas mo dhánta inti á múnlú go cáiréiseach gur lonraíodar mar an ré

Belovèd, a dream of a disused factory where I pulped my poems carefully transforming them into shimmering moonlight medofo me daeɛ yɛ mfididwumabea a aguo na ɛhɔ na me fete m’anwonsɛm na me dane dane no ma no yɛsɛ ɔsram kanea

tom-thomson/lightning-canoe-lake-1915 nochtann tú domsa dochreidte . . . id' thintreach mhall id' scal as folús as duibheagán ionam féin foilsítear id' thine thú

You appear to me impossibly . . . slow lightning flashing from nowhere from the depths of my own being revealing Yourself as fire wo yii woho adi kyerɛɛ me ahodwiriso… te sɛ ayerɛmo a ɛrepue prɛko pɛ firi me nipadua mu daa wo ho adi sɛ ogya

stefan-caltia/the-unicorn-in-the-forest-2005 conas a tháinís ar muir ar tír nó ar aer níl taifead againn b'fhéidir go dtiocfaidh tú fós ar aonbheannach atá dall

how did You arrive by land by air or by sea there are no records perhaps You've yet to arrive riding a blind unicorn sɛn na wo baeɛ faa fom, wiem anaa po so adanseɛ biara nni hɔ mmom ebia na afei na wo reba a wo te pɔnkɔ a ɔtua abebɛn teaa

Adolf_Höfer_Herbst_im_Schlosspark_Schleißheim

tá binse folamh ag feitheamh leat, a thaisce an fómhar buí tagtha níl tásc ná tuairisc ortsa seachas cogarnach duilliúir an empty park bench awaits You, my Belovèd autumn already there's no sign of You at all nothing but whispering leaves mede agoprama akonwa retwen wo, medofopa ahuhuroberɛ na abaei m’ani ntwa wo so baabiara, gyesɛ nnua ahahan na erebɔ hwerɛma

Kachel mit Dämonenpaar; Gebrannter Ton, glasiert; Pegu, Birma ca. 15. Jh. Linden-Museum, Stuttgart

deamhain ag smúrthacht thart a chuid den saol, fuilchíocrach cad iad, cad as dóibh ollphéisteanna doscriosta chothaíomar inár gcroí iad demons stalk the land Belovèd, so bloodthirsty where have they come from indestructible monsters we nurtured them in our hearts

ahonhommɔne nante sum mu a ɔrehwehwɛ mogya anom, medofo na hen na wɔn firi baeɛ monsamfoɔ a wɔn ko yɛ ko na na wɔn nfiri babiara sɛ yɛn akoma mu

Air-Brueghel the Elder-MBA Lyon A77-IMG 0408 tá beocht nua san aer atá á análú agat líontar le ceol é a ghlór féin ag gach aon neach a dhuan féin aige duitse the air comes alive for You are breathing it now it fills with music creatures wanting to be heard each with its own song for You mframa nya nkwa efirisɛ wo rehome no berɛ yi na nwom ahyɛ mu ma na mmoadoma pere sɛ yɛ bɛte wɔn ne wɔ nnwom a wɔn asiesie de ama wo

El_último_refugio C_Emeric_Tauss_Torday_2013-08- 24_21-32.png

cé tá gan dídean 'bhfuil ainm orthu, a stór cé d'fhág tréigthe iad nó ar thréig siadsan an domhan an domhan dofhuascailte seo who are the homeless have they a name, Belovèd who deserted them have they deserted the world our irredeemable world

ɛhenfoɔ na yɛ frɛ wɔn me nni babiara da na wɔn wɔ din, medofo na hwan na ɔtoo wɔn asawram na wɔn nso apo wiase yɛn wiase a enni gyefoɔ

candido-portinari/navio-negreiro-1950 an ghaoth sna seolta is scamaill ag dul thar bráid na réaltaí i gcéin nach bhfuil éinne ná aon ní – níl? – a stopfadh long na ndaor

winds that fill her sails clouds passing by up above and the distant stars is there nothing – nobody to stop the slave ship's progress

mframa a ɛhyɛ ne ntoma mu ma mununkum retwam wɔ soro ne nsoromma a ɛwɔ akyiri na bibiara nni hɔ a ɛbetumi agyina nkoa hyɛma akwantuo yi

martiros-saryan/a-comet-1907 níl aon chúis, a chuid nach líonfaí an oíche mhór le hamhráin-chóiméid brionglóidí lae ’tá scáinte aimsíd a gcruth istoíche

there is no reason why songs cannot fill the night like shooting comets songs that are patchy day dreams finding their shape in the dark bibiara nni hɔ a ɛkyerɛ sɛ ɛnwom ntumi nhyɛ anadwo ma te sɛ nsoromma a atu faa nnwom a epue wɔ yɛn awia daeɛ mu na ɛpɛ ne koraberɛ wɔ esum mu

Mother-India-by-Amrita-Sher-Gil-Oil-on-Canvas-1935

gach bean is ea thú ársa ataoi is síor-óg máthair na milliún máthair do strainséirí fiú linne d'áthas is do bhrón

You are all women you are ancient, ever-new mother to millions mother even to strangers your joys and sorrows are ours mo nyinaa yɛ mmaa na mo firi tete, nanso yɛ fromfrom dabiara ɛna ma mpempem ɛna mpo ma ahohoc na mo sereɛ ne mo suu yɛn dea

George Gad Economou

the worm’s wise words twenty minutes to noon and the first tequila and pink grapefruit juice’s poured, to start another dull day of nothingness; no money, no job, no love, no hope for tomorrow without the fifth of well tequila the shotgun would look promising and sticking my head in the oven a smart idea. where do you go from here, how do you move on? a contract for some poems got lost in the abyss, the faint light was eviscerated and after the tequila’s done life won’t make sense, not that it does now outside some people cowardly step out of their lairs, pandemic still rages on but lockdown’s lifted partly, some need fresh air, some need to see people, still alone in my room, tequila, smoke, hoping for that contract to arrive—nope, nothing yet nothing ever first glass down reaching the bottom of the bottle, the finish line of life the worm’s not there but still is a phantom from years and places of long ago and of other lifetimes doesn’t matter if the timelines get all mixed up after all, nothing is meant to make sense, the turnaround was too steep cliff barely avoided by pure unlucky circumstances crawling to the bathroom the endless row of fools sitting on stools is gone evaporated like dreams from another life, like the momentary light of I want to publish your manuscript but the contract never came— gone gone gone like the wind like the fire like the love like everything around you and around me and around us and them like the worm that drowned in rum like the fish swimming in bourbon where do we go? she asks without being here, from down the road of

another country and she asks her new man, not me, she asks the one that doesn’t come home drunk at six in the morning smelling of cheap tequila and even cheaper perfume.

Hopeless Nights under the Stars the waves splashed gently on the sandy shore, as we held hands, watching the bright night sky during an algid winter night; the bourbon and our embrace were keeping us warm, under the mocking stars pinned on the black sky, no sign of clouds in the horizon as if life had finally decided to smile upon us—alas, the naiveté of youth, and how to recapture it!

“what do you want to be, when you grow up?” she asked, giggling. “I don’t want to grow up,” I said, nipped on the bourbon. “why would I?” she shrugged her shoulders, averted her gaze back to the night sky; “look!” she pointed at a falling star, “should we make a wish?” “what’s the fucking point?” we both made our separate wishes—none came true, nor will they. few people walked by, dog-walkers, night-joggers, insomniac housewives… a respectable neighborhood, big houses, new cars, fancy clothes, always food on the table… we lived ten minutes from the beach, at a dorm apartment I was renting, and we had brought skid row to the fancy suburbs; they looked at us in disgust, we were the users, the cooks, the dealers, the pushers; everything they wished they could lock up. and I wished them locked up for polluting the world with their dead ideals and soulless eyes.

“we’ll make it one day,” she said and I’m still trying to decipher what she meant. “definitely,” I whispered, had a good long hit of bourbon to keep me warm and sound. “you really think so?” her voice betrayed her surprise. “no,” I fired back somberly. “right,” she sighed heavily, and kissed me on the cheek. how we managed to survive nine months, I’ll never know; she withstood all my toxicity, we survived drugs, booze, hopelessness, pointlessness… we traveled through the vast field of nothingness, and only one returned. yet, for a short while, it did appear as if we were to make it. naiveté of youth, if only I could regain you! brutal cold sand under our feet, we made love under the stars and the green moonlight,

as CEOs and high officials slept in double beds, or watched late-night television with one glass of 20-year-old scotch. we drained Four Roses, we kissed again, and again, till we got thirsty and staggered our way back to my small apartment that had not yet become a prison for whispering ghosts and fading dreams. we cracked a new bottle, had a long sip out of it, then we lay down on the foldout couch, she in my arms, and watched a 3-hour ROH event, getting drunk on passion and bourbon, not even thinking we’d have to get up early in the morn. we never knew whether the sun would actually rise, every night was the last. and it served us right, until the last night did come and the sun never rose.

a normal tuesday a couple of white Russians while cooking, beer and wine to wash down the poor meal; whiskey to remove the stale taste. smoking almost all the time, a couple of joints thrown into the mix, and some lines of blow to vanquish the numbness. ever since she left, my life’s become a constant abuse of substances; I adore it, cherish it, require it. she’s back to the one she proclaims to love, I have my true lovers right here, booze and drugs, and occasionally a crazy woman dropping by for a quick, drama-free fuck.

memories from the underground the deal was done, final pleasantries exchanged; she walked away, I stayed behind. we shed tears because we never shared a final kiss. it was all over, ended as abruptly as it started. the memories remain, though there’s nothing to remind me of her presence; only the whispering ghost, the shadow of the piece of her heart I managed to steal. only ruins are left, the lambent sun bathes the world, someone knocks on my door; someone brand new, a new virgin heart to break. more tears to be shed. there’s no point in the charade, yet life goes on. glass, blow, junk; they made perfect sense. they allow you to gun it to the final destination. until you obtain your final home, nothing but motions are there to go through. she’s in, I’m out. we drink, we kiss. same old song that only feels new because it’s candescent, yet feels too familiar. a new smile, lucent eyes, same old things replayed over and over. insanity remains strong, only the substances keep it under control. a fulgent light, an attenuated tunnel, a singular destination. almost there, just need a few more years. I drink, time shrinks. with acid, junk, glass, blow, and pot swimming in my bloodstream, I envision the future: nothing nice to say about it, no tears to be shed. I’m dead, and corpses don’t cry nor smile. within the comfortable embrace of the algid ground, I

finally rest, liberated of all harrowing thoughts, free from the whispering ghosts. I’m still around, haunting the same old four deaf walls, no one seems to pay attention. life and death, too damn similar, equally purposeless. it’s alright, a final drink poured, one last cigarette lit. the truly last ones never come, the hole in the ground comes closer. it’s all damp, I’m surrounded. no light, the destination just got farther away. I run, unable ever to reach it. farewell, a bird chirps. the nightingale sits on the tombstone, has lost its voice. devoured by the raven, fucked by the bluebird, raped by the sparrow. I’m still here, the lion trots away horrified of the mean old bulldog. it’s all over, the light shines ablaze one last time, one final embrace, an icy beer drowns the pain of departure. done.

Fabrice B. Poussin

All gone now

Earth is so dark in times of apocalypse cities deserted charred by fires memories chattered under the ruins of all that was once creation of man.

It was often thought a lethal bomb or another great eruption if not that infamous tsunami might bring a swift end to the kind.

Few witnesses like her remain strolling through gentile neighborhoods peaceful as the last Sunday she so erred alongside the same green expanses.

Nothing has really changed contemplating the hawk on the prowl inhaling the gentle fragrance of the blooms she savors a safety she never knew.

She is alone and she is free to go on her path without a care like in her intimate shelter perhaps one day she will meet another but why rush it she ponders and smiles to the heavens.

Not Enough

It is not enough my dear to paint what they see.

You may record their words perhaps lies.

If you describe the aromas of the sea will they know your heart?

When you taste sweet nectars of the gods how do you share what they mean?

Perhaps you will touch their soul if you try.

But it will not be enough to share as you would with a child.

Silence my dear you should choose unless you have come armed.

It takes more than words on canvas more than notes in the ether.

You must create and give your soul for it is not to you it belongs.

Sacrifice all that you are so all may know.

Remember

Do you remember the tight embrace in those days of sweet nectar when the games of youth were all we knew?

Have you forgotten the caring glances as a fiery sun blinded our laughter now so much later into the night?

Are you lost at dawn facing the bay window gifted an apparition in the gentle mist a fleeting memory of our days on swings?

Perhaps electricity still runs through the virgin tips of those digits strong to make you tremble with fearful joy?

I imagine you now as this earth closes in in your dress as a spring garden running to me your dearest purpose.

We were so light then you and I carefree women not even teens in an eternal giggle without cause.

I hope our final tears linger upon your cheek the death of childhood the end of the affair alone in the world loving as pure souls must.

Do you remember the tight embrace our eyes closed onto our many mischiefs as we watched the world go by a stranger?

We played this odd symphony on the grand mimicking the waves of a distant ocean I fancy it resonates forever in your breast.

I touch the single photograph of us to find myself with you again in the meadow my chest heaves in joy at your touch from above.

Feet dangling over the abyss to this earth I imagine I will soon sit with you in the dress you offered me with a wink.

Still Failing

Gazing upon the line in the sky, he wishes to capture signs words upon the azure nebulae of forgotten eternity if only a gentle storm would form in the hours’ heat.

Then perhaps in a voice of many echoes he would claim to the depth of infinite galaxies a final message in the accents of vanished tales fiery tragedies.

Inhaling the hues of his domain recalling a renaissance with dense blues swarming greens and devilish reds to create in the sphere a masterpiece of melodious airs.

Madly grabbing at ghosts of past aromas swirling he is a twirling dervish approaching a troublesome trance as hopes the size of quanta vanish in a cruel tease.

He wants to taste the pearls of the heavenly nectar swallow this concoction of undecipherable signals running to the invasion of a threatening enemy.

Begging for an ultimate prompt he falls to the brazen ground genuflecting in a humblest prayer captured by deathly silence never to be revealed the key to her magical riddle.

Wordless letter

Words mean naught in this singular sphere only the journeys of traveling winds.

In utter silence the lone wanderer is blind unaware of those so-called lives hovering.

His gait unperceivable he appears to float writing with his will an eternal message.

For a brief instant their coats flutter moved by the infinite murmur of his wish.

A voice shakes them to their deepest cores flowing to its singular aim in unknown distance

He has not spoken nor written against the walls but he has been heard by the one he has chosen.

Mark Young

A line from Janis Ian

Where does the investor rank in the pecking order now that asym- metric information is no longer considered safe to be shown on flashcards? I am reminded of Debussy, who may or may not have said that ideologues perish when the seas are rough. Or may- be flourish was the word he used; & the devotees will exit the waves bearing debentures of quality & wearing silk suits that do not stain when the saltwater hits them. We less fortunate sit on the beach & debate whether chalk or lemon juice will better clean the prom dress up.

Spit & Polish

Whose polo- naise? Does it / really

matter? All that's important is: lost out

in the dance- off to her mazurka.

Aquaculture

Fish school when the moon is out. Before. Sep- arate. At various levels with disparate meanings. States of grace. Waiting for the cast of light across the surface of the water. On appear- ance drawn to it. Co- alesce, lumin- escent. In the fine mesh of the right net they become a poem.

Aspidistra Time

I am sitting on the couch eating bread with cheese & pickled onions, plus a couple of small tomatoes. I think it's called something like a ploughman's lunch, is traditional, but that isn't where I started out from. It may however be one of those loose connections that cause inexplicable associations to arise, in this case a book by

George Orwell, Keep the Aspi- distra Flying. So long since I've read it I can't remember what was in it; but I'm sure it wasn't about cheese & pickled onions on slices of heavy bread.

Dan Hereford

Agent Orange

I flew to Vietnam Landed in Saigon Agent Orange was on the ground And the beat goes on

1, 2, 3, 4 I love the Marine Corp

Our enemies were the trees We sprayed ‘em down like weeds And they came And they said he shall come And he came And he said that it comes In fifty gallon drums

I don’t belong My memory’s gone Falling into my bed Empty, just like my head

I tuned in, turned on I dropped out at twenty one I’m toast, So you can stop staring at me This song’s messed up I’ve got nothing to say

Một, Hai, Ba, Vô

I was livin’ it And lovin’ it I was livin’ it Singin’ it Sleepin’ it Laughin’ it Lovin’ it

Slummin’ it Swimmin’ it Livin’ it Singin’ it Sleepin’ it Laughin’ it Lovin’ it

i was beaucoup dien cai dau Crazy as hell and how Time on target ground attack, to the Cadillac of medevacs

I flew to Vietnam Landed in Saigon Agent Orange was on the ground What’s his number?

Brainwashin' Baby

Brainwashin’s on my mind Brainwashin’ baby Brainwashin’s on my mind I am deaf dumb and blind now And fiber optic Are the only connections I can find

I forget what I forgot then I don’t remember I don’t recall I forgot what I forgot when I don’t remember I don’t recall I’ve got no memory of anything No memory, no memory of anything at all

There was a time then When old man lady luck was shinin’ down on me Yeah there was a time when When old man lady luck was shinin’ down on me I didn’t need no bot to tell me How to live my life or how to breathe

Brainwashin’ baby Brainwashin’s on my mind Brainwashin’ baby Brainwashin’s on my mind How do I know what I really know? Fiber optic Are the only connections I can find

Gem City

I am Tecumseh And I was born upon this Land long ago A shooting star burst Across Miami Valley Cosmic afterglow Five rivers meet you here at a mound You lead the way as her spirit Burns bright beside you

Gem City asks you Can you hear her call?

I am Tecumseh The birth of aviation Calm before the storm Above the jet stream Scramjet and ramjet engines Dance with UFOs She’s better than the rest, she is blessed With innovation on a mission For her proud nation

Gem City asks you Can you hear her call?

I am Tecumseh And I was born upon this Land long ago A shooting star burst

Across Miami Valley Cosmic afterglow [

Yellow Cab

Call a taxi Take a trip Light a spark And throw a kiss In a yellow cab Grab ahold and Climb aboard Riffs and rhymes Run up ahead In a yellow cab

Yellow cab, mellow yellow Yellow submarine There’s no place like the right time If life is but a dream Yellow cab, yellow ribbon What you feel can make it real Sons and daughters Test the waters See there is more earth than sea

Turn about Twist ‘n shout Tell me how you work it out In a yellow cab Tune it up And Count it down Now you know When you’re lost you’re found In a Yellow cab

When you feel part of the scenery Turn off your machinery In a yellow cab Times you’ve been around the sun Doesn’t really matter none Freedom In a yellow cab

Call a taxi Take a trip Light a spark And throw a kiss For a Yellow cab Grab a hold and Climb aboard Riffs and rhymes Run up ahead In a Yellow cab

Bank Talk Dead People Can't Vote

The other day I was walkin’ Past the tomb of the registered voter I said, how unfair our ancestors are there The dead people can’t vote at all

The dead people can’t vote at all Except in Chicago and Florida, you know Worked their fingers to the bone For an 8’ x 3’ home The dead people can’t vote at all

Now the dead people can’t vote That ain’t legal Aaaand if it ain’t legal Might could be wrong But right or wrong We can sing this song The dead people can’t vote at all

Well I’m voting what can I say Voting my life away Voting for business and pleasure When I voted 4 times today Don’t need ID they’d say Old shoes on new feet Whatever

Now when dead people come back to life As zombies and vampires ’n such We can wack ‘em on sight, you know They’ve got no rights The dead people can’t vote at all

I pledge allegiance And flagrantly hope That we will take time to recall The enduring words of our forefathers,

Those who had no indoor plumbing: “Give me immortality or give me death”

Home School Miracle

I rode to a factory school On a bus burnin’ diesel fuel I had a homeroom teacher Mr. Kool-Aid drinker Hang on What did I learn? Zero tolerance Prison jumpsuits for all of us They had the cameras spinnin’ For a school to prison parade

A loud speaker called me down One-size-fits-all told me I’m a clown Put me in detention when I asked For whom the bell trolls Resource officer hack Law enforcement was hot on my back That’s when I grew some wings I packed my bags and things I was gone Yee-haw!

Now they call me the home school miracle And when they see me, they get hysterical Cause it’s empirical I got to here from there Aprendo Español mit kein Gestapo Carry on

But wait, there’s more They either get it Or they don’t If they don’t get it They’re gonna get it

It’s time to call the boys in the lead pajamas Cause I radiate power like there’s no mañana The difference makes the difference When your life is in tune

Super double awesome possom Get the frick out my room I said yeah, yeah Yeah, yeah, yeah Hey, hey, hey, hey

Agent Orange https://www.werkehorse.com/?fbclid=IwAR0KxWr6_fmjneiwuVB3hcvowyR34y

From dan hereford’s WERKE HORSE An undefinable rock band

Published by permission

Marcus Bales

What Jesus Gave

Remember this when witnessing begins He died but then He came right back to life: So Jesus gave a weekend for your sins.

Just look at that assertion while it spins, The triviality with which it’s rife: Remember that when witnessing begins.

If that won’t toss your Bible in the bins, You must at least admit it’s not much strife That Jesus gave a weekend for your sins.

And don’t you fear of all the shades of skins That yours is not the same as Adam’s wife? Remember that when witnessing begins.

It’s more like Jesus may have barked his shins, Or suffered poking with a butter knife When Jesus gave a weekend for your sins.

A sacrifice like that is shits and grins For any god who has eternal life. Remember that when witnessing begins: That Jesus gave a weekend for your sins.

Kite

It reached up for the wind so it could fly. I didn’t make the paper or the string, But tied its crossbar on to make a wing. I didn’t wind the thread I held it by But shaped it so the wind would take it high, A tail to keep it upright in the swing Of all the varied breezes air could bring. Resistance kept it balanced in the sky. And then came the inevitable part The tether fell inertly down to land Inertly to be gathered back to hand. The distant rising kite had made its dart Up into clouds so far away from me, And flew off to its fate, now finally free.

Reciprocity

He did it and, what’s more, you know he did. He sent his mob and almost had you killed. And yet you meekly vote the way you’re bid In hope you’ll keep your seat and coffers filled. You do one more, and one more, shameful thing And think you’ll be rewarded for each deed -- That your loyal actions now will surely bring His reciprocity when you’re in need. But you must know that’s when you’ll be betrayed, The moment you’re not useful any more, That nothing that you’ve done for him is weighed As anything he’ll ever owe you for. The pattern’s clear – you know what he will do. Get rid of him or he’ll get rid of you.

Grammar Blues

Mike Whitney sings it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UCvvHd7Fnw

Woke up this morning feeling like life kicked me to the curb Woke up this morning feeling like life kicked me to the curb And left me here to suffer as I adverb adverb verb.

Woke up this morning feeling like I couldn't hardly function Woke up this morning feeling like I couldn't hardly function I felt like two important pronouns were missing their conjunction.

Woke up this morning feeling like I needed resurrection Woke up this morning feeling like I needed resurrection More than a definite article I need an interjection.

Woke up this morning feeling like the blues had worn me down Woke up this morning feeling like the blues had worn me down I cursed my self-inflicted fate: adjective adjective noun.

Woke up this morning hoping I might still petition you Woke up this morning hoping I might still petition you Over, under, during, through, I'll preposition you.

Empty When Full

It was not a good morning, some things had gone wrong And the rest of the day wasn't looking too good. It was hot so I shortcutted back through along By the parking lot where the police station stood. I was lost in my thoughts and was humming a song, I was minding my business like anyone would When I saw the three words that provided the pull For me stopping to think about Empty When Full.

In the back of a building an alleyway goes By a ramp made of concrete enclosed by a wall Was a gate that somebody neglected to close And that stood there gaped open revealing to all An enormous steel bin, and one side of it shows In some block-painted letters a few inches tall, Those provident words that provided the pull For me stopping to think about Empty When Full.

There were tracks on the pavement, though partial and damp, That approached to the bin and were faint in the sun Where some vehicle drove to the top of the ramp And then drove away. It was clear what was done. And the words were still true with no need to revamp Them, their meaning remaining the pertinent one That was resonant in what provided the pull For me stopping to think about Empty When Full.

L'envoi Universe! What were you trying to say With those three little words that provided the pull In that reverent moment that provident day When you stopped me to think about Empty When Full?

Robert Beckvall

DEATH by 1,000 Cuts

The Wang Dynasty

22+ years in has tried to do me in like a shell shocked Marco Polo

Finding silk and noodles

Slowly bled, not ever knowing it was trickling down my back

Staining my shirts and sheets

I knew you loved me when you would sharpen your knife

It was so fine a blade I did not know my skin was split

But now, with a lazy, rusty, chipped, and unsharpened blade

You dig into me

I recoil from your crooked leg and misty eyes

My love was true, yours was a slow motion torture session

Feed me, love me, need me.

But please, put that rusty knife away.

LM 5-21

All selections are copyrighted by their respective authors.

Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited.

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 or The Library and Archives Canada at http://epe.lacbac.gc.ca/100/201/300/ygdrasil/index.html .

Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

Note that simultaneous submissions will not be accepted.

Please allow at least 90 days for a reply.