Mason's Stoup 6

8/6/2019 Mason's Stoup 6

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MASON'S STOUPwinter issue

an hozomeenpress publication.


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thanks to albert kauschfor his assistanceand to boylan color copiesfor their existence.

the frostof eloquentwinter.

the winter issuejanuary 1992edited by matthew tarbox.

cover designed byhenry christian geyera boston stonecutter1776.

hozomeen press publications7 4 algonquin drivemystic ct 06355.issue six.


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contents5 matthew curtiss6 d aw n estabrook s7 ray ellis9 mook11 almond shief

12 sir soyrah13 pink muller14 richard martin16 carolyn tacey19 alex pellish22 direction25 richard freitas27 kenneth c. fish jr.29 matthew hannan32 charles james33 dayne duranti34 mark quinn35 albert kausch38 matthew austin tarbox44 ghoti


5/46illustration by eliz abe th k now le s


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o matthew curtiss

Fr ang ip ani mo onbeam sLift our soulsTo new heights ofXT

CWe listen. hope, love.Skin boils. nerves fry.L ig ht en in g s al tp et er .Sweat mixes with emotion.The votive flickers a penumbralAcross hills of velveteen flesh.Legs intertwine, lips hook.Love undone.

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o dawn estabrooks

follow the curve ofpush your cheek with a kisswrap round silhouettes of eye closed weariesconfuse with trees outside my windowblack shade and white shadow share the spaceas far apart are weand frozen Greek mouths never meetbut one hand always conceived to carryits finished fillsits with dreams and peers onto meI fall into floors and walls where my centeris weighed in you.

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D ray ellis

Strick's Heap Mantra

and the compos tis so like deathg lor io us c or rup ti onIt's fall! and time for a resurgence of energy

a glorious lethargy, a visual litanyof texture and pattern, pearl and colorof greensight from hilltop across the treesand frost shepherding warmth from over the hill.And f9r a brief weekthe green from summer grows so purethe texture of leaf more tensileand the axe of frost grows more sure(and in that onlyrnoment last of summer

the wind blows clean across our soulscarrying the gas, the effluent of summer)but only for that moment, awayand the compostis so like dea thglorious corruption


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To the communists and punk rockersChaos, myriad anarchistic chaosno order no pattern no law no fearPASSION singing passion purefeeling, a knowing of selfso that others may bejust bein chaos, myriad anarchistic chaosin a sound vortex that envelopsso thoroughly, so completelyt"hat all is lost save self(bodythoughtunderstandingknowing)and an incomparable wonder that growsand moves, and directs a continuum of willacross centuries, whose natural bentis chaos, pure anarchistic chaosin a sense of self that is so strongthat there is no self without otherand there is no meaning without giving

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o mookThanksgiving DayThe cold clammy wind howls over the river like a lostsoul, on a bleak and dark November.I stare out my window and what do I see. but a cannibawomen eating avacadoes, and five crazed arrogant"Wall Streeters~ looking up at me.One approached my window and put his forlorn head onthe sill and begged for a dollar.Tears ran from my eyes, and in a moment's lull, Igently closed the storm window, and crushed hisfreaking skull.

Amen.


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o ammond shiefBebuggle

Upon the stoop he sits,door to his back,steps between legs,legs that are pegs.Parapelegic thoughts freeze left leg and right,it's the fright of the night that brings the fightStruggle, bebuggle pain into brain.Lost, insane, there is no refrain.The body is lame, the brain waves are tame,a mind without fra~e,it speaks of no claim,the ending's the same,a name with no fame.The body's no motion,with one magic potion.it lifts from the ocean and soon floats away.Away it will stay,it needs not the pay.it's clothed in just hay,his rope, it does fray!The smoke from the lighttwists circles so tightthat they tangle the airin pressured despair.Paraly sis leav es,with three desperate heavesand up go the sleeves, to enter the life.The life is a struggle,he has to bebugglein order to muddlerealities rape.

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o sir soyrah

I wore the heavy armor,and I wondered what it was likefor him in those days of triumph.Now he is back in the kitchen,smoking a cigarette, lost in his past.

I Am the Greatest of the Wannish KingsThe other day I paid a visitto the greatest of the WJann1sh kingsto borrow his armorand wield his sword.He sat alone in the kitchenburnt by his memoriesand made useless by his regrets.He got his forgotten armor from the clos~t.He has sold his sword. .

I should never know those dayshe says.And I should be thankfulthat I am spared,he says,from knowing these.

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o Pink mullerFantastic glittering memoryon the purple blondesheets of your narrowempty bed, your clothingis still and pale andwet from the river.You swam so fast outtowards the moon, yousaid you'd never dry off,return to fire and rock,the home of yourancestors, hair wet, wringingout your ears.I thought about a lotof things as the watermoved unmarked andamorphous beneath ourharsh. weighted bodiesand, upon finally dripping,leaving the liquid cool.We hung up our clothes,articles of color anda bs or be d s il k_h a~ gi ngand prayed on cutknees and slept inwarm soft heather atthe edge of the river.

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You take the seat and I'll ride the baron our royal blueand we'll speed togethertoward the seaand there will splash our feetand share the communionof gentle sun birth and restingupon this green earthwatch the dazzle danceof butterflies among the thistle and golden rod.With gentle grace, a maidshall approach us in our peaceful ease.She will say. "This is our home and here you are welcome.And the day light moon will be her gift to you and I.We will share this ha~y spherenurturing it withour transfixed gaze.We will feed itin long draughts of empathy and unionand fill its hollow shellwith fertility and abundance.In afternoon sun will canyons creepwith synthesis and transformationand in child will Mother blossom,bold strength and. g enerosityAbundance then burst forthpenetrating sky with crystalline motionswhich we shall echoin rhythmic unionas the life laden spheresinks toward its own reflection.Connectionz the kaleidoscopic eruption,form potential conjunction.Then, she will take our handsand pull us forth and say, again,IIThis is our home,"Then, we will dance free and easyto the spirits of harmony and convergenceand release our souls to contemplation,d eliv ery unmanipulated .

r = J richard martin

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FlowerLittle flowerthat peeksthrough the mortarof rain heavy leaves:where have you foundthe strength for your ambitious existence,such end urance,persistence?You, alone,in this wetautumn fieldremain,even as all seems sinkingabout you.

illustration by j en ni fe r w ol


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[:] carolyn tacey

1.Freely in association with the mythicthere are children who danc e in circular dreamssound.ing drum beating soles to earth to sky to loamto cedar to hawk to sand to wheat corn whey to my soulThey rotate dreams on a new axisin rhythms of variating memories, visions, ancient bloodknowing they chant forward syllables of free wordswithout meaning under the eyes of the deadMyth is the mask of mystery myst.ery has no faceII.Where do we imagine we know life and deathWhy not love mystery for itself its own placedirection way not void not emptiness not nothingnessBut Mystery energy source life movement connection openunnamed undefined free manifestations of all our songslYlysteryIII.i do not want to know all your little secretsi do not want to know all your little fearsi do not want to see all your little loves or joysi want to touch youi do not want a mystery in my hearti do not want a poem in my mindBut here i am asking for what i know i haven't gotor didn'tever have searching for what i lostthat i thought somehow i owned Wondering what it meansto haveits all a small dream to have a thing to have a thoughtto have a longing to have an apple to chew onor prove gravity with16


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i had a dream last night and the night beforei had a desire a few minutes ago i wanted a lovera certain one i could hear a voice taste the fleshsmell his salt skin closenesswhat is it to have this de sire?

i had a dream within a dream within a small dreami had a desire i never owned could never regain resumerealizefor so many dreams within dreams stand before mehis small dream of his having his needing withindreams of desires within dreams of his touch his poemfrom within a father's dream that held a desireand lefta drum for me a rhythm for Ca Man do you understanhow the drum can be me is me you beat your liberatiGive birth to man from my flesh pulled taught liberaman deliberate consummate celebrate illuminate thof these oppressive myths supplicate salivate elevmy body to new places oscillate on my drum consummahaving obligate a mystery to your father and liberafrom these dreams manliberate me

IV.You see how the summer drought leaves still danceyour spine dreams upon rock still sculptures mineralcelebrations of movement the pattern is the motiveis the reason is the is

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V.Winds blow freely trees respond deep in their rootmarrow souls leaf helix minds wounded branching directioSkies settle down darkly resonant of some freeing to corneDictionary pages blow open and open and open as the baseof these corporate media myths are revealed and thevoweled howl of nature's true voice passes beyondour consonant minds trying to widen the restrictivesounds of human intercourse the winds open wide and flatover prairies and towns sounding soft moans that touchdeep into yearning girls and shiver their groinswith some unconscious knowledge of a body pressurethat is more immense than what they are

VI.ah My! a my life a my dreams Oh My! 0 my poemis within me stillthe seventh direction is meit is here i find sourcethe ideas are all outit's into the body i must gointo the dark center 'i run i run i runto the windowsto the doorsway inin in and way inthrow them open to the lost nightthrow them open to the lost oneshe has come this way through four worldsseven directions and one spiritand found this placewhere all and us and i and yousometimes part before wavessetting into midnight abysses

where no creature creepsbut weyou and sometimes icrawl to our freedomtogetherit seems we run

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o alex pellishI sat back inhalingthe perversion of images"cancelled eyes" and" dead mus eums'"within the contradictionof retail settingo verhearing mutteringsfrom hardened mid life plumpswho wander this mallas if pithed by the couponblankly drawn to the storeselling bins of useless plasticand microwave foodall for a buckcigarettes taste of tightnessand tara channel for that all too familiarcanlt read my mindmy appearance pale tothe calculated wanderings of Williamand the score(an all night porter who found vein)and in me the ghostof all of us withdrawn residentials(i r n a ' she a tl ). . . . .

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Scrackyard ElmIndigo flames teasean old man called hatredwhom I digestedwith an oversalted dinnerone year of aggressive talkSeveral periodic timesI drank bitter liquorwith this feeble manIn a picture hate stoodnext to scrackyard elmjust like a father in poselast weekthe amber of trees etc.left me driving the carTalking to my friend

Bunk. Sa toriread a wordthen i overheard itagain and againfunny i just hmm well no thencause you'll neverhear the endit always happensit always happensin these (a) periods of omissin these (a) periods of omisswho is to believethis bunk satori?

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- . . .. . - -~ - .. . - - - - .. . . .. , '~ - . .. . .. . _ .. . .. " " - . . . ~ _ _ - - . .. _ - - - .. . .. . . .. . .. . . . . . .. . .. . . .. . , . . _ . _ '" ' .. . - . ;_ . .. . . . :: : io -- .w . Io I: J . ._ . . .. . . . . ._ ~ . .. . . .. . . ._ . .. . . .. . _

The Thirteenth Annual Art ShowJanuary 25 and 26 , 1992The El-n-Gee Club 445-1523


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illustration by j en ni fe r w ol ci n


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E : l richard freitast wice atmos phe re

the rising nightforeverbeing nightcrouchingamongst rows of red maizein these hills of history's waxinglisteningas swans speak through shiftingwalls of rainin lands ofti dal f ruiti onalways, the nightfreeing fell rough children like abouquet of earth turned to await thefrost of eloquent winteralways, this nightemblazoned in dew stained delightyou and i are here until this nightforever being a hairs breadth away from eternitour last hopes are of dying hopesour last gains are of nocturne plainsr ad ia ti ng s ph er es of the unconscious iand youpenetrate gently the frigid clearof shadowless morning

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brick

in the twenty minutesthat remaini go to the schoolyardits on my streetthe p rec onst ruc tio n ne ig hborh oodon the farthest hillshas been triumphed overby nature herselfand climbing the one storyeducational addition circa 197 3 -closely footed in an irregular stepbecause of the custodians belowi hidein the courtyardnext to an iron gate with whipcrack windsexhaust from furnace and skylinetucked away. in this far appendagerolling drugs is difficult but it remindsme of the july driverolling drugs while navigating highwayson the ride homeshe is in an institutioni am in the worldsurrounded on three sides by brickand addiction and the october since


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o kenneth c. fish jr.Greenmanit is there upon the terraa silent reminder of a nearly forgottenmeditationtree groan old time is sand and you are it's hourglassone hundred feet and thousands ofyesterdaysyou, mighty willowyou, the remainder,the reminder of a town and a roada death of a mani love your green cradling coveryour grey wooden living armsyour unimaginable strength and endurancelook at me looking up through yousolemn, fixed upon Shiny leaf bottomsand the sky, moving above and pastthe sun travels the hemispherethrough my zenith and through meeye, nose, lip and hair warmed, aliveso small lay my trunk beneathyour immense selfso all are you, that i barely existso forgiving are you with your scarsinitials of lovers and lonersconfessions of vandals initialedsince 6)and what of your life, vanguard

of the stones of the deadyou the figurehead, the foremost opticallock of the Greenman plotwi,th me, miniscule in comparison, belowyou in every sense of the word

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Sylvia

blue was the skycalm was the aira distant knoll still held the sunshe wrote internallywhile her children still sleptthe cool air outside was her bloodthis was morning, her time before slaverythe evryday captured her at sunriseforcibly trapped into a routinechained by separationno escape except through wordstears from the beekeeper stung her cheekwere endings her drive?sweet Sylviabeautif ul Sylv iathe everyday captured her at sunrise


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o matthew hannanI just read a new FuseLicked my wound and felt the bruiseBig black blown flatBeat on me and gone blue flameBurn my mind and slice my soulYour vorpel blade blows my coolAnd shows my weaker front.

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And so it came to an endsE llis walked in the woods and met God.God, the light, the bright intensity of Truth.E llis, the ember of late night fires burning downWithered from the light,And from the dust arose the Phoenix.A burning angel. Black flame, smoke and spitting venom.Slowly cooling settling to the forest floor.God spokesuYou were once the late night moon light grookster,The Sax of Portersville alleys, the shadow on the housesDown in the valley. But now you are one of my sons.You are a messiah, a Truth bringer among thievesAnd pirates and cut-throats. You, my son, are to doMy bidding and I bid you teach Truth and ToleranceTo the lost. So go thou, go thou and be little beneathMy sight."So off strode the new Ellis, the old Judas, the swalloweOf coffee bean dreams and moonlight rings.

J O

Gone out for coffee and got juicedFlying out of circle of smaller knowledgeSeeing the freaked out ghosts of too much knCold wind from ocean's blowingGone out for too much darknessFeel the light through screaming cloudsHow the light is present escapes meWaiting now for the tension releaseThink the rat used to be a priestGone down to the riverThrew a stone and watched the ripples growAction creates energy energy grows largerFall sky of rain is screaming,"Why the hell am I bleeding?"


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Open Letter to P.A. Martin

When your life starts to get out of control,it means that you missed the warning signs.The omens of a hundred crows in a field.The falling down on old walls naked.And even the Devil's own signs of big freebags and bags of roadside beer.It is times like these when you must shut outthe world for a few moments and find your Tao.The way is not always the constant way andyou must know the difference.I found my Tao today and it was in bed with me.It was so bright and loud that it woke me ateight a.m. and in return I promised not to smokethe lies of material world falacies.To hide above or below ground showing no signof growth is the same as dying.It is no meditation medication, it is diseaseand atrophy and if it continues your soul, too,will wither and that is where the evil spawnsand crawls out your mouth to find fertile earsto divide unions of years and fill peacefulvoids with fear.Just remember I Karmic payback is a bitch.


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D charles jamesof my revelation that slippedthrough the flaws of my memorYIi think i must have glimpsed somethingtoo close to the wisdom of godi realized something simplesomething man should not knowchrist, i instantly saw the beauty of logici yearned to set the words on fine parchmentin ink so permanentbut the words were lost through that holein my headtherefore i know god interceded a second time

tII Smoke "Gripped in blackfacing the man with the red glowand a cough of smokeAn eye shifts in,turns outMeeting a stranger(like when she dyed her haior wore a new hat)Ah, stranger eroticism is this -Eyes full out and blackTo remember the red, shiningWith heat of smoke over my knucklrim alone with a smokefriend's bePushing me. Stroking me

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o dayne durantiVirtuedear mary -I see your crimson tearsPour down your distinguished cracks.From your chinThe blood of Christ drips.The vampires lap at your feetUntil they reach your headand once again you are clean.We are all clean.Cleansed by innocence.Cleansed by ashes.The ashes of Christ.Christ is INaked came I.


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D mark quinnReferring to Spirit in the Diminutive

Silver of EarthOpal of LengthGold of Opulance andHelium of JokeContained within the commercialSouls of dysfunctional relationshipsThe elements hold vigilsSitting in carsParked between yellow lines -Waiting for a small child andReferring to spiritIn the diminutive;The elements wait in the spacesCreated for themKill ing sp iritFeeding culture


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[:] albert kausch

The Kingfisher Poem

Golden grasses gracethe view of the kingfisherin the autumn sun.He knows the circleand wears one around his neckas a thin white linein partial ellipseas part of the departureand the arrival.The kingfisher fliesflitting up then down, acrossthe pond, by the rocksand he disappearsjust four feet off the surfaceinto the distance.The going changesas that long days now have passedin rhythm with wings.The air is so stillit weighs more than a dark' st~r.All things are quiet.

Then, a reflectionon the water is a birdturning into sky -it's the k ingf isher!who has flown between the trelaughing and cryingto the lower pondwhere there are sounds of falwater, leaves, and wings,then back again upsettling into a hUnchwhere he can take watch.But kingfisher diesinside, for what is passingand what is coming.A strange man in blackwalks along the ridge throughlooking at the ground,near, the kingfisherwatches from November's brancthe still g old en, g rass.


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(- ',.. - I In ' . > . '. . , _ _ . . - \.-'


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a piece emerges,because of the swirling lifesource of all the named,becoming a soulas it mingles with the earthsubstances of formall the while moving,angels come dancing on leavesand laughing children,clouds and hair flying,and free men dance to musicmade by their movement.


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D matthew austin tarboxpepper.princess of Siam fdearest ladyin vestiges of grey:those mornings f the windowsill meltingand the gentle winter radiancefilteringdownthrough the bare limbsof a decemberfrost,as you entered fthe soft openingof a door,and you wandered silentacross my floor.you were here beside me,and we slept on til noon.

it was christmas,when you spoke to me in the hallof Thai kingsand the revelryof princes in sweaty Bangkokand priests in village temples the windows rattledas you sat complacentin the patienceof the endless generations,the pa tienceof an egyptian kneelthat you knew

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we saw deep into our eyes there,we talked deep into the night.we saw beyond the glowof the aurora borealis,and beyond thehor.omeenand what was stiller,we saw.

and today,the earth will take you.today the earthwill take back what it has given.i will stroke your templesfor the one last time,and i will scratch your backand smile.i shall hear your patience rumble.i shall hear your patience rumble.

pink orange red.the choke of a sore thrtears. i cannot st


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mal thus prufrock.the first chapter.right hand tapping male lead to thigh as left hand followscontrapunt rhythmic response to worn aluminum seatbar inthe careening subway. tap of foot providing Kluohiu: pulse totunnel" track rumble sequence, overwhlem of metallic screechhysteria as metal against metal incoherent public address ibrok en boston accentuation.dirty fluorescent tUbing in ceiling casts dim subterraneanaura over the figures in the compartment,mal thus in dusty trenchcoat with soaked umbrella and hairstaring ahead to multiple glass refractions in windows,tapping silH~Hxthe few figures arise as reverberated shriek of stop climaxeand lights flicker. silence.the faint gasp of hissing doors and electric sparks.mal thus fetches umbrella and steps down rubber stairwell toconcrete underground station, aX&Hnm.passes PJam an obese elderly man wearing protective sunglasIUUi. and sitting with cane on grimy bench. as mal thusgaits past, the manls fat head and neck retate. watching.malthus has ascended to the street. winter darkness in thed~nner hour - figures hidden beneath umbrellas and rainhoodsu she r pa st - u rg en t. J lDX it kK sX Ka il xx ax &a ll l.t x: &I tI lX Kr .BX s.JllttlllJ(xllmtri.r&:a~he raiftXixx pour of rain accehtuates dreamcity lighting in street ref lee tions/l!l.lU.x:txB.SW~h of tiresacross slick asphaltx and Llhere is thethe noise of distant sirens andcar alarms. the sky is hauntingly lit with the urbanhalogen mercury glow, grey.malthus steps into one of many cabs.a~KiasKXxxnQ~vx:thax~rwi%hXax2m~im.B~xllmKri.r&:aft.X:txKIxa faintodor of alcohol and grease, cigarettes. the reassurincadence of windshield wiprs '"a cabbie who is bf{Ge!'S ttsnfh~Klhis picture on the dash is unfocused and dark gIaMses are wothe electronic ticker beeps as intersections are traversedincoherent cabbie-spea k ~.EEHa~Kminterrupts the suburban soof frequency modulatws radio backgoround and disk jockey babmaix~Bxexitsxthe cabxint~ zlimaxxoi downpllIuras noi~exllIfrain a1Xd city


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8 S TEAM BO AT WHARF. M YS TIC . CT . 06355 203-572-0012INTERNATIONAL CHO ICE G OURMET COFFEE

POETRY READ ING and WORKSHOPi3-t ~he Green Marble Coffee House

a workshop will be conducted on various poetic formswhere writing, critique, and discussion are encouragedThe workshops will begin at 7 13 0 pm;these will be followed by open forum readings.january 12february 9

simple rhyme schemes; syllabics; sonnetsterza rima; rima disoluta

march 15 villanelle; sestinaapril 12 dramatic monologue; narrativ emay 10 hallucinog enic, psy ched elic, sur realististream of c onsc iousness, free verse poetfor additional information contact albert kausch 5 3 5 -The Green Marble Coffee House NiyStic CT 572-0012.


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Circa 1754 C aptain Daniel Packer Inne~ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ~ :t~Water StreetM .v~ Li(', C on n ecticu t O(}:"~[)f i

(203) 536-3555Tuke a.journeYI.nto the past.i o h .e r c t r n d i t . u r n a l u n l n e n'('"/'(' {'()/III!/IJi/ tt rid ih e price:1"I'(l:"() /I ( / 1 ) / ( ' .

Treat yourself to an evening out where the foodis exquisite, the staff accommodating. and theatmosphere cozy with a fireplace in every room.Our chef prepares a nightly specials menu thatcan satisfy the most discriminating palette.

A W IN TER SERIES O F PO ETRY .READ ING S, STORYTELLINGAND SONGSAt the Captain Daniel Packer InneStarting at 8:00 pmThe last sunday of each monthThese are open forum readings, bring work inprogress or just come to listen.

January 26,April 29,December 22,IVlarch29 . February 2J,l\ '!ay4.


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prophesy and an irish indiano ghoti

the birds sang sweet sugar andhigh spirited, limited only byearth's boundaries and noother.it is the wind with invisible fingersand blankets of hot and cold,life and death.the deciding factor is beyond selfcentered, shortsighted wantsand needs.look at the power surrounding you,electric without wires, youand your blood and brainwith wires of pure nerveand electric overdriventestosterone.you with ego runs with windlike the braves of Algonquinnaked, free, leather feeton soft earth brown flesh.beauteous body on beauteous body,simple man on simple earth.minimal ism should be the top wantand need.blood runs as sap flows. man andcreature, grass and tree.winged bird, cloven swine, yearringed tree, hung with vinesand it is surrounding, beatinglike the nervous heart in allboyhood male fanaticness.and the candle light sky, distantand cloud streaked, viewedthrough falling leaf trees,tribe on rock on hill,in heaven.the crows fly and the sun fallsfrom the sky.


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Mason's Stoup 6