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 Nov 2020 Derek Yohn
Nat Lipstadt
the entirety of my feeling is resting on my tongue,
asking for birth, release, freedom:

here at the border post, the guards have fled, and the memory dreamer refugees, previous detained, hesitantly, gingerly, step across a narrow invisibility, a legal fictionalization, courageously frightened, but words of “at last,” “if not now, when,” and “god bless” blend into a merging crescendo of “yes!”

the road chamfers, dusty gives way, all the traveller’s shoes, now wetted, stained and staining, make amusing sounds of connection and interaction - squishy, distinctive, known in every language, dialect -  unrealized but known, spoken, somehow comprehended.

why is this heaven wet?
is truth moist?

indeed, for this place is truthful, and sensory networks cross, senses are both heightened and bluntly realized- and this confusion delights in human land mines

let me explain:
my tongue has eyes,
my tongue speaks the words we have in commonality,
my tongues hears your sounds,
my tongue penetrates parts of you
that no other-part touches in the
same way.  

though you might think this is simply ****** subterfuge, it is not.  

simply you need to understand how
deeply this human connects, in his way.
 Jan 2018 Derek Yohn
Nat Lipstadt
For Ilion: Sleep, Return to It*

young man of Manhattan
sleep, return to it,
we must stop meeting on the corner of 125th & Broadway at 3am

young father - thy life thy future thy child -
depend on it

as do I -
depend upon thy poetry*

for you are the lion of youth,
I, the graybeard of past paths,
no need of sleep in my dwindling days,
but time bids you welcome,

- thy life thy future thy child -
all ask me, let him come to us

7/7/17 4:49am
always a poem in reserve for you

////  •'||
/  (   (  \

/ \

( yeah )



Ride the rails


they gonna start in again with the lynching

and ****** in the jails


hear the little girl

Telling her boyfriend

That she's       So Sorry!

( & won't he come back again )


Amid the real suffering

She seems like she's lost her head



Oh my dear children

You are so condemned

To a life of bread and water

And a metal bed

////// ~~~~~~~ //////

The chance for love is NOW

& it won't come back again

soft seed

Our love

So deep the soil

and we pray for water

It don't matter none

These love games

We live or die together

( and " together "


Surely what we ain't )




( ehh ?? )

So dear children

You know what to do

And you know you better

Start doing it real soon
              Carl Solomon


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
      madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn
      looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
      connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
      ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
      up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
      cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
      contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
      saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
      ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
      hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
      among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
      publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
      ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
      to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their ***** beards returning through
      Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
      Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
      torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
      cohol and **** and endless *****,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
      lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
      Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
      tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
      dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
      storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
      blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
      vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
      lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
      ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
      until the noise of wheels and children brought
      them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
      battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
      in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
      floated out and sat through the stale beer after
      noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
      of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
      pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
      lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
      down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
      off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
      and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
      and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
      and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
      Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
      trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
      City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
      ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
      drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
      railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
      leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
      through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
      father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
      athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
      stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
      ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
      gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
      homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
      light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
      seeking jazz or *** or soup, and followed the
      brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
      and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
      to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
      behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
      and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
      place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
      F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
      eyes **** in their dark skin passing out incom-
      prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
      the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
      Square weeping and ******* while the sirens
      of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
      down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
      and trembling before the machinery of other
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
      in policecars for committing no crime but their
      own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
      dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
who let themselves be ****** in the *** by saintly
      motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
      the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
      gardens and the grass of public parks and
      cemeteries scattering their ***** freely to
      whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
      with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
      when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
      them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
      the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
      the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
      and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
      sit on her *** and snip the intellectual golden
      threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
      beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
      dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
      the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
      on the wall with a vision of ultimate **** and
      come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
      in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
      but prepared to sweeten the ****** of the sun
      rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
      in the lake,
who went out ******* through Colorado in myriad
      stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
      poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy
      to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
      in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
      rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
      gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
      ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
      solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
      dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
      picked themselves up out of basements hung
      over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
      Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
      ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
      the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
      East River to open to a room full of steamheat
      and *****,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
      cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
      blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
      be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
      the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
      pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
      bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
      their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
      with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
      by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
      incantations which in the yellow morning were
      stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
      & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
      an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
      for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
      fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
      fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
      stores where they thought they were growing
      old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
      on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
      & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
      of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
      fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
      ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
      drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
      pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
      into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
      ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
      the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
      saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
      danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
      phonograph records of nostalgic European
      1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
      threw up groaning into the ****** toilet, moans
      in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
      to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
      watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
      if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
      a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
      came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
      watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
      Denver and finally went away to find out the
      Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
      for each other's salvation and light and *******,
      until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
      impossible criminals with golden heads and the
      charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
      blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky

& even the ***** little high school kid

Finally falls asleep

•  ==  •

remember me ?

When my ***** disappeared

Inside your ***** hair


Just like it used to

In our hairless younger days

Before the playful eyes of the

Police man


playing the game of


how we laughed cause

No one got hurt

Cause it was love

Before our brazen arrogant nights

Slipped into the dying days


I remember the first hint of your breast

Your eyes !

Laughing in wonder

( somehow YOU were ALWAYS there )

That is what I really remember

You !!

With me

Thru it all




One world

In midst the human race we were

We were one in midst the human race


And now the children come !

Thru the opening we Made

Unto the god


A touch on your *******  

And the job was done !


& now the wars & the ugliness !



When there is no smile

I still look into your eyes

(Yes ! Yes !

You s are here ! )

And there is hope

And our love is strong

Once I was a ***** but now I am not

Once I was transgender but then I forgot

                   Once I was AMERICAN         (but then the Police )

So tell

Everything you know


Ghosts float so eerily thru the sky

Looking for children in alleyways

Trying to find

Way home


the long way

Leads to every part of town

In the *******

That's where all children await

All the love they'll
Ever know

A keepin out of sight

I'm a comin

Perhaps this very night



well over yonder

Where the prairie

Meets the edge a town

A tiny hut is there

Where the vagabond hangs out

Come and meet him

And much to your surprise

He' ll be the  one you trust the most

With wise and gentle eyes



I'm a  tired

A keepin out of sight


she s a good kid

loves the boy on sight

Such a sweet kid

kind and simple

In the woods at night

She knows the language of creation

She hears all the dreams  of the light

 Sep 2015 Derek Yohn
i remember that feeling*

like a dusty childhood memory
of playing in the sun
under the trees
like something that we can recall
but never revisit
she talks about love like it's a stage of life that we move through
not an enduring present

i am the same
it is an illusion we use to torture ourselves with
and the wise choose to forget the crossed stars and the blue lights and the blood trails
we align ourselves by other means
grinding our feet into the ground
cementing the way we interpret human connection

truth and love aren't universal
they are abstract concepts that no one can pin down long enough
to understand
we believe in floating definitions
and base our actions thus
truth and love are bullet-fed cherubs
murdering humankind
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