About 7 Ziohat’s Blog (ENTRY 83)

    [Ziohat’s Blog] … Much has happened, but for now I’m left with the task of cleaning up the old party cave. I’m James Ziohat, the Poetry Guru. Doug who’s the last one around that I know of has lent me a blog to post on.

    In the 1960’s (who can remember exactly when) I founded the Xyiwa Poets. Poetry readings were held for a few select followers in secret caves. Like the impressionists in painting, we, the early vanguard poets were scorned. A few rich patrons financed the building of a luxury cave complex where wild parties were held and poetry was written on the cave walls. We called ourselves the Xyiwa poets because Jack Chelka found some obscure words that he learned in his travels, and we just picked one. We condemned the dependence on the traditional University system for validating the decadent standard for poetic excellence. Some of the early works were moderately incoherent, and meant for shock value such as this wandering verse by Jack Chelka:
Forbidden Cave
   by Jack Chelka

The scrub
cave way
often not high
not hiding
entrance to danger:
spikes and crevices of stone

never gone to.
Outside fire
guardian sits

Mob on fire
slays him
evil curiosity

wandering flesh torn inside
falls and torments
spirits savage
many hours to death
screams louder
spikes and crevices
broken gasps
stone and stream gurgles
screams many hours

guardian spirit
greets the dead.
rather be outside

The Xyiwa poets can easily tear apart and destroy any formal form of poetry, making it unrecognizable. Here’s an example by Douglas Gilbert that shows how a haiku can be distorted into nothingness:

   by Douglas Gilbert

For the festival cry
many at the reflecting pond
see each other see
a lunch time in the park
a man gushing blood on a tree
cops jumping back to catch a

trial day for the
collapsing man on marble
his woman crying by

our exploding Sun where
couples in weeping willows
release spirits from ashes

by meowing lions
lambs in meadow’s lake

for all to
ripple still waters
with sneezes deadly mocking

Here’s another fragmented style by Douglas Gilbert:

   by Douglas Gilbert

Lost cake
no birthday
deeply my song
in twists confesses

Flat note dance
in double time confessions
floored hard

With me gravely
deeply jam
rasp my horn
berries red

Lonely the night
leaky eyes stain
in fog lashes
for ships on ice
coldly stoned rocks
bleeding red confessions

Flat death
smashed cake,
deeply un-noted
twists turn to
song gash,
betrayed icing

The Xyiwa poets often ridiculed the poetic forms by including them with a non-traditional internal rhyme scheme. Here’s an example:

   by Douglas Gilbert

Santa Claus left her
a sonnet to read:

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust is cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss
no gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

Mrs. Claus hated his bluff —
rarely did she see
his cherry lips or cheeks

She could play
with farce no more, for
the fantasy wishes
in unlabeled boxes
would not suffice
for Mrs. Claus who
wrote free verse
while Santa was busy

Santa answered
delightful letters
from giddy children, but

she received letters
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass

Mrs. Claus hated when the big one
went away on Christmas,
when the snow looked like
semen dried up and flaky,
his departing stomach
like a pregnant indulgence
she could only wish for

Finally, one Christmas
when no more
could she count the
melting snow flakes on her tongue,
count the elves, the reindeer,
the orphan toys, her emptiness
overtook her sanity, and
she took an empty sleigh
to drive into the city of sin,
her naked body wrapped only
in a fur coat, a pocket
for her Santa cell phone

She left the sleigh,
tied the reindeer to a lamp pole,
strolled the streets showing a leg,
singing “Ho, ha, ha”; Heaven’s
white tears covered her head as
she peered into loneliness
waiting for a finger of love, but
she spied a lost little girl

She hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
found a Lisa

“Where’s your Daddy?”
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk

She would look to find him as
the snow thickened, her head covered
with a white crown of sorrow. Lisa skipped
and jumped close behind her like
a newly born calf not
straying too far, waiting for an available tit

Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path

Eventually he noticed
her glistening tears. Looking
in her eyes, saw
he knew her
once before

Just then, the
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.

The world was wrapped in gloom
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head

Joy fell from artificial boons
and wrappers filled the ocean

With a poof
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff

Starlight appeared
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”

With a ho, ho, ha
and a ho, ho, ho
they vowed to
do better with love
to listen to snow
gust up and swirl,
to see a gift like a crystal
had already been born


    When we were partying and scribbling poems on the cave walls, I never thought about preserving them. I suppose that even though the walls now appear to be blank, there must still be some residue, chemical imprint, or subtle difference in the surface that was temporarily protected by the pigment of the writing. We could bring in some experts, but we really don’t want to reveal the location of the cave complex to any outsiders. However, I have found some old photo’s of a party where the walls are visible in the background and I’ve been able to read some of the old stuff.
    I’m sorry, but most of us were relatively young at the time, and although I put on a show as a Guru promoting poetry readings, the ostensible leader, I was really just excited about a rich older woman who took more than a casual interest in me. I guess, foolishly, I just thought of the poetry as a gimmick or excuse for an orgy. The older guys I guess must be dead by now. Looking back, it was really stupid not to publish in a book — after all, we were too drunk to memorize anything. Well, a few kept notebooks and did do some vanity press books. Doug has stuff out now, but not all of it is authentic to the movement — ah, well, I guess I shouldn’t be such a snob, especially as he’s been gracious enough to let me use this blog site…
    …And now that I think about it, Jack Chelka hasn’t always been that consistent either because he wanted to be published in the Mainstream press, but still wound up broke in the creek. Anyway, here’s a few different ones:

  by Jack Chelka

Below the tide line
a shack sits on my sorrow
on her grave in shallow soil
spotted ramshackle place
lair of the leopard who
could not but kill her nagging.

Wave crown like a lion’s mane,
erosion has left
an ocean opening for
pain’s swirling wash and drain

The beach shack of this leopard
shall not stand as
roaring sadness bites me there
where I will tell Guilt one thing:
eat me as prey,
pray me down soiled
blot the blood in spots
before I die awash

  by Jack Chelka

If feelings were enough
I could just be sad
like Swiss cheese
but there’s a hole
in that argument

You don’t know me at all
never asked to listen to me
’cause you say your tears
speak for themselves,
mine don’t
being too few, you say

If you’d let me speak
I might cry too
with an explanation that
I made the oceans

Let me fish in peace
and I might gut our problems
fry love in olive oil
stuff your poem in
a green pepper, sweet
and sour with a note from me
that doesn’t rhyme but’s
on rice paper that’s edible

I’ve been thinking about how to organize Jack Chelka’s scattered poems because I think the style varies quite a bit. I suppose I really should wait a few years until I’ve synthesized it into a more intellectual presentation, but I decided to plunge ahead with my primitive first draft. Ok, so I’ll embarrass myself a little. Jack would have liked that — he always thought I was a bit pompous considering how he suspected that I really didn’t know anything(I think I once overheard him call me the “fake Guru”, or maybe it was a curse word…) Anyway, here’s my first attempt.

Jack Chelka often fretted about his sense of identity, and pondered Love as a loss of ego:


I spread myself
to be without boundaries
to conquer, to control,
yet diluted drop
doesn’t taste of
blood, soup, love
that I take back
when feeling loss of identity

Not I would be
if lost in love, but
is an owl, and
what a hoot feathers are

But, of course, Jack could often be grandiose. Here he imagines himself being God:


I awoke this morning
finding myself not a cockroach
as in Kafka, but
as God

Everything is a bit much.
Therefore, I put all humanity to sleep,
except for one

You foolish one:
I give you
the power of Love, and
a baby

I know you will give it
the infinite Love
I have infused in you,
because this baby
is you.

Teach yourself, and
when you’re finished,
help me to continue.

I have many billions more
to surprise
with laughter

Jack experimented with the re-assignment of word function. He forced the verb to be noun with an article: “the IS” — beingness; preposition with verb also used to force the verb to be a noun: “with COULD” means “with hope”…

eeHuh Light

sanguine pump in the played
the laughed love gushed
with could by the wished
the is by the bleed
a duel duet sings
the where ever light
up pump the huh down
duh the why burden heavy

beamed out the shadowed
the light by the be
sings the shine
on flashlight, onward

Jack liked spoofs. Here’s a spoof of the song “Anything Goes”:
the sun
is magnificent
warming the scent
to tent all the
tender ways,
and anything goes

decamping a passion
lighting a fire
drinking desire
wellsprings a choir
anything goes

the strut
is parading love
blowing our horns
to vent all the
kisses saved,
and anything goes

Drum up a throbbing
trumpet a
heart beat
glide with a
trombone smooth,

the fun
is significant
warming the tent
to scent all the
tender ways
and anything goes

Well, that’s all for now. Geez, I’m thinking of deleting this — I don’t think this selection does justice to the body of his work — I think he’s done better. I could leave it for now, and I’ll search for more — I know I remember there was a lot more that was better…
One of the underlying techniques embraced by the Xyiwa poets was the unending sentence, dependent clauses galore. This one is hard to follow until you realize that it is structured as “John, a blah-blah, troubled, is lost”:

The Explorer of the Clause
   by Jack Chelka

John, explorer of the weird
troubled by the accumulating
detritus of fear, greater in
reputation than courage, who
might easily step into
an abyss of unending tragedy, if
his fans goaded him into
indulging his foolish bravado by
leaping into supernatural danger, a
lurking phantom of dread, a figure
from the closet of his childhood,
this danger that he could
wrap around himself like
a cloak of honor, he, standing on
the magical cliff above the cheering crowd
who wait for his downfall, playing for time
that would run his future out of luck
with his last coin for the
slot machine of lemon cars driven
into rivers of lost hope, and who
distinguished as a novelist
fighting to publish the memoirs of a fool,
hoping bad jokes can be extremely bad,
campy comic and like a
very excellent counterfeit painting, one that
all collectors will insist is real to
save both their face and his, hoping a
cult following will astound the critics, but
not curse him when he ultimately
disappoints them with his frailties, those
quirks that twitch in the night of the dead authors,
is lost

John is lost and so am I, but this one is a little easier to follow:
   by Douglas Gilbert

The psychic woman
had showed her
rough seas ahead,
said beware the tides
and flowing kisses,
but that seemed like
shallow waters to her

She had a fifth
her thick handkerchief
mopping up her eyes
highly high on her trumpeted mope
slipped on her poor spilled
cocktail of his love kisses
lost crawling
across the stage
where she was to sing beige
before a sea of mahogony tables
over drunks and hecklers
sticky stinky beckoning
bass strings plucking her heart
woe tale wagging about him
the bragging whale
who blew his spout
and left her high and dry.

Seeing her collapsing,
I could not bear her despair,
rose to say,
“I have always loved you,”
and we all stood,
hecklers and all,
to beg the last song

She knew me at last–
kissed me, the little one

Turning from beige to blue
caressing the mike,
she rasped in weeping harmonies
“Stand for me
the stood-up one;
harpoon my love and
sail me to the Port,
wine me down mellow,
me, a cello solo
singing this tale of prophecy:
the big ones get away, and
the little ones stay.”
Jack worked as a chef once and had a steamy affair with a rambunctious waitress named Marie who wrote a few poems about him, and although they had many fights, she did tend to exaggerate. Here’s one of the milder ones:

I Dump the Chef for the Poet
   by Marie Draper

My precious chef is a practical man
knows where to find fragrant garlic
can drive a chive dish to profit
buys me gifts and trinkets
but won’t let me buy him mouthwash
says smell is macho natural
won’t wear sissy cologne

I want less spice
more romance
but not a diamond ring;
mushrooming passion singing
brings a new excitement to

another, my passionate poor poet
complex, enigmatic
a soul layered
like an onion

In my buttercup, Poetry Man,
I shall sauté our bubbling love
and be soft
don’t make me cry
though I’m unfaithful to riches

Now, who will bring me
a hero
sandwich first

Marie could cook too. She made some special dishes on occasion. Pastele is a traditional Puerto Rican dish — Wrapped green banana stuffed meat pastry. It’s wrapped in parchment paper, and made with pork.

Having Pastele
   by Marie Draper

When I write my poems on parchment
he is my spicy pork
boiling with passion
wrapped in words of love
filling my scroll
dipping in the lip
of a labia pastele seeker
I seem to remember there were a lot of poems written by the Xyiwa poets about floods and storms, but unfortunately I think most of them were written during the purge ceremony: We had a pile of pens, markers, crayons, and paint brushes with buckets of paint scattered about with a giant stack of old computer fan-fold paper. Someone started a chant, “Write your ire — throw it in the fire.” All night we wrote hundreds of pages, most of it crap, and threw it into a bonfire. By not worrying it was supposed to eliminate writer’s block. The day after, we liked to imagine that everything we wrote was a masterpiece. But unfortunately(or fortunately), Paul Chelibi had bad aim and a few of his poems missed the fire, or at least that’s what I surmise from finding a charred scrap, or maybe it was from a different time and he meant to burn it and changed his mind. I suppose it might need more work, but it’s too late for that now. Well here’s the burnt draft I found:

Her Floods
   by Paul Chelibi

you fair weather friend,
have you seen her?

500 year almanacs, and
planes by twilight
didn’t warn us

She and I had last cognacs
before floods scoured

Now lost I am
forgetting her for hours
awash in fragrant flowers
in harsh despair I pray will soften,
but since I see a glimpse too often
of glints in shadow sorrows seen,
I look for her still in rainbows
gone in soaking drowning rains
those floods awash in flagrant flows
of love remains awash and soaked
like boundless muddy sadness buried,
in all, forlorn to mourn a body missing,
not saved by dams man-made
nor comfort jammed assistance,
but madness of sadness remains to be found lost
on ships listing heavy in names of my loss

I also think this one escaped purge night:

Still Verse Born Dead
   by Paul Chelibi

I showed you my
only poem child
who wanted to sing me
the gospel of my wails
to sail on windy travails
my hurricane of desire

He is too fragile for you
to adopt

You won’t
rock us to sleep
when calm seas
seem too boring
to let us dream
of tranquil verse
our cries to the sky
are more amusing
by doldrums
than albatross

Here’s a more recent one written by Doug, but he claims he wrote a much better one those many years ago that he threw in the fire on purge night, claims it was magnificent, but nevermind — we’re all stuck with minor work now:

A Wash Day
   by Douglas Gilbert

Clear skies a sad beauty
blue light on the
heavy smashed awash

Flagging hopes asunder
only her scarf waves
a brick on its end

My eyes flutter full
overrunning my face
a thunder sob escaping me
though death escapes her not
beneath a fallen wall

she had for me
while I was away

Waves she got
while I could not
wave good-bye

Last wave
too high for tiptoes
dancing toes, dainty
toes in the water

I wave of me in light
it waves of blue in dark,
last waves cried tsunami
   The Xyiwa Poets had many “unanswered prayers” — none of them were ever published in a legitimate publication to my knowledge, and I don’t think any of them made it to Woodstock. I haven’t been in contact with any of them except for Doug who’s letting me use this blog space while he recovers from his brush with death and … well that’s another story. I think Paul Chelibi went to the Grand Canyon once, but probably that has nothing to do with this poem of his:

Climbing Music
   by Paul Chelibi

I am my own donkey
carrying my mule-song
down this canyon road
narrow ledges slippery

More than once
I grasp a tree root
protruding from rock crevices
devastated to hear
answered cries are echos
off backpacks heavy with
futile supplies
too heavy to cross the river
too light to turn back
unanswered prayers
heard by vultures circling
seen by eagles leaving
scenes tumbling in
avalanched dreams
hoping to reveal a cave
a cave-in song, or

   Marie Draper was a troubled person who prayed often and experimented with many different religious movements. She kept a journal or diary but was unfaithful to it. Sometimes she shared her journal entries with the group and certainly, everyone would agree that she had many “unanswered prayers”. She said,
“The restaurant where Jack works(where he thinks he is chief Chef, but is really just a lackey — I mean, he hasn’t been to Cordon Bleu school or whatever the hell those elite saucy snob cuisine colleges are called) has been in turmoil ever since one of Jack’s prize steers on his cattle ranch died. He’s not much of a rancher or cattleman and his dream of a new cut of prime famous branded beef has died. As they say, “he’s all hat and no catttle.” He was going after that dream of a perfect herd and great riches. The death of his best stud was the end of a dream. I told him that the Native Americans always said a prayer before eating an animal(so maybe he forgot that part): they thanked the spirit of the buffalo for sacrificing itself for their survival. Jack doesn’t want to put prime beef on the menu for eating anymore — I wouldn’t be surprised if he put a memorial sticker over the entry on the menu. He’s too sad. He just wants to bury it. I say, eat the meat because we have canine teeth for it and we’re not meant to be vegetarians. I’ve written a poem in honor of death and chicken bone soup for poor Yorick or Boris or whoever that famous allusion is, and I think I’m going to dump him, the arrogant chief Chef, because we fight too much. I guess I should have taken him with a grain of salt and thought of him as a poetic moment— wait, um, what ever happened to that discussion at the cave party? I thought we were going to amplify on that concept. Somebody started a flu poem and then did a second more poetic version…. well anyway, here’s the poem:

Marie on Death of a Chef Who Loves His Beef More Than Me
   by Marie Draper

Don’t rip me no more
you’re tearing out my guts;
I’m tearing out yours
spewing entrails
in my trail

I’m stuffin’ it;
take your chitterlings and go
’cause I’m not mad enough
to eat your brains.

Sweet bread, I
once thought you
were sweet enough
to eat without your pancreas

Defeated I cry blood, but
your pain:
take it with you
it’s a pleasure
to vomit alone without you:
I can flush

Oh, writing hurts so much, well.. so this scattering:
Oh hell, what is this crap, “Poetic Moment”. I’m not sure what that means. Is it an incident and an emotion that’s trying to be expressed? I’m not sure what many of these poems are trying to say. Some seem to be hiding very dark events that are too painful to express. But I don’t think that vagueness in poetry is always a virtue(I almost accidently spelled that “vulture”, but I guess vagueness can’t be a vulture, because the carcass is the vagueness I guess— you can see I have trouble with metaphors). Am I wrong about this? My poetic moment is confusion:
I’m confused about
what words to use
to stew my angst
banking fear by the river
where I stir my pot
over the campy fire
with soft marshmallows
charring with emotion

Maybe I misunderstood something, but I thought one of the poems that someone blurted out during one of our drunken orgies was about rape. So I wrote a poem talking about revenge and/or forgiveness. So we come back to vagueness: I don’t know what I’m saying, if anything:

Cornered in Hell
he holds his breath
while praying for his birth

The Devil asks me
shall he be forgiven:
you decide

No, no, no,
I cry in remembered blood, but
a question occurs to me to ask

Have I ever been in Hell
on Earth or elsewhere, and
whose forgiveness did I require

I was tempted until I heard
my former tormentor shout,
I will get you even from Hell

My screaming anger
burst into flames
turning him into the ash
of a phoenix

Whose remorse
will God seek now

Not mine is a life that
is an end to suffering.
Pain will not let me forgive”

That’s the end of the entry that Marie donated to the group. Each of these is very different but I think they both represent “unanswered prayers”.
Discovery! I found a box of old 45rpm records, and tucked between “Honky Tonk Women” by The Rolling Stones and “Knock On Wood” by Eddie Floyd, I found a gem of a poem by Marie Draper. Gee, I don’t think there’s a turntable anywhere in the cave to play any of these. Oh well, here’s the poem:

Minding A Mine
   by Marie Draper

Loving a stone
is like being stoned
he comes alive
sometimes, love
coursing in gold veins,
sometimes he’s
in my mine
and I share my treasures
pleasures we are
in my mind, but
he is a rocking
a stone of mystery
he is a gem,
could be
I love a stone

And I found this one at the bottom of the box. I had to wait to stop sneezing from all the dust before transcribing it.

Rushing Love

I call to the waterfall
who shushes my heart

Peeking through
a shining sky peaks

Waterfalls speak that
shining tizzy for bears who
love a glistening fish falling in

jumping bubbles of dinner calling,
but alone I watch for

the arrow of Cupid
within the rushing twirling fluid
and I pray to the guardian
of the calming sound
for a listening lover
found so fit
to christen me in
the love in a bubble
a splashing sound
found when
champagne glass
breaks for a ship
     Cleaning up the mess has been more tedious, more arduous than I could have ever imagined, slowed when an objet d’angst brings me the pain of reminiscence, tiny little crumbles and broken things. What is it I should remember…
     Y’know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that as kids we were arrogant and foolish to think we were inventing new theories of transcendence: we thought that thought-games would liberate us from redundant emotions and sentences to obscurity such as this. Venting anger on paper was supposed to cleanse us. It didn’t work. If anything it reinforced our rage.We must have written hundreds of angry, unfocussed poems that wound up in the trash. But I think when Paul Chelibi helped Marie Draper write a few, it wasn’t too bad.
     I found something the other day. I had been doing a meditation on a stack of 45’s when I found a tightly crumbled up wad of paper in the center hole of a record. At first I thought it was a crude version of one of those plastic conversion discs that were used to change the large hole of a 45 to a small hole so you could play it on a 33 1/3 rpm turntable. Maybe, out of curiosity, I’ll try to play it, some other time, to see if it has any significance– hmm,”Lover’s Holiday” by Peggy Scott & Jo Jo Benson? Sort of scratched up…
     I’ve unfolded the crumbled up center paper and even with all the dark black pencil scribbles all over it, I’ve managed to pick up the impression of the writing from the undersheet. So here’s one which I think was a tamed down version from an argument between Marie and her sister about who would make a better hypothetical Secretary General of the UN. It’s pretty mild and I think maybe the original rant was better. Paul broke up the fight, and by the time he and Marie decided to collaborate on a poem they were both too calm and too drained of passion. I’ll look and see if I can find some other draft, but for now here’s the crumbled up version:

  by Marie Draper (with Paul Chelibi)

While resolutions were tabled
at the foot of war
peace was axed, and
the ancient evil growled
in the castle fortress
on the pimple of the world

The blond UN lady
knew I would blitz
up the hill with
my adze
for I had advertised
my attack with polish
that it was time to chop wood

Dreaming at the foot of twilight
the ancient house called
me to reform its recalcitrant wood
to etch a notch in the handle of my adze
by slaying the dragon
saving my son but
I had brass and so did he,
so I arrived to his triumph
kissed his success
as we cried for the dead

Kiss my adze blond lady
if you want to auction it
to the highest bidder who
chops down ancient trees
in the forest of the evil castle
where the Beast waits
to be transformed by
the Beauty of justice
at “twilight’s last gleaming”

If I would be as beautiful
as he is ugly
I might approach him
with reproach
but I polish
the handle of my adze
until I am pure of heart
and the wood is ready for carving
because death is the only solution
for the impudence of ignorant brutality

Only revenge now
when evil breathes fire

Tasty is the barbecue
that roasts on the
spit of freedom

And speaking about rage, here’s one by Doug:

Killing Dad
  by Douglas Gilbert

Justice, I called on you
to shield me
from my father,
a hanging judge
self appointed
child critic
who made me
an orphan from love
as he had been one
in fact and for me
de facto. TURNING AWAY,

a scientist, giving me
a time machine,
let me go back to pre-mean.

Seeing my Grandmother
hit by a random stone
I lured her into a trap, thought to
let the crowd stone her to death
a method ensured to suggest
to Fate that my Father never be born.

Told I could not come back
as I wouldn’t exist,
I visited myself as a child,
had him kill, but
it took an extra day for
his Mother and him to dump the body,
never did tell his friend Becky
to check out the museum where
she was to meet her future husband,
father of the world’s greatest healer.

If it was my fate to suffer
I was convinced these paradoxes
made time traveling circuses
dreams not to be had
as I know I woke up from
somewhere unreal,
but next time I’ll
introduce Becky,
then kill him
I could have gotten help
when Justice I called on you
but you were dead;
I am Justice alone.
    I didn’t want to do any spring cleaning because bringing back memories is so painful. I’ve been finding all kinds of stuff.
    I found an odd note from Jack Chelka: “I’m sorry I left in such a hurry, so if you find any of my poems, could you please burn them. Well, OK, I know you never listen to me, so, could you give them to Doug in case he ever publishes anything. He can do whatever he wants with them. I’m going somewhere — maybe Australia. You are groovy Ziohat… and don’t take this the wrong way but you have been so cool and I love your… nevermind… peace and love,
Jack Chelka, 1969
p.s. Marie Draper says, ‘Right on.’ ”

Well yeah, great guy, and I’ve found at least one poem that was to be burned:

Not A Fair Match

This last affair
not a fair match
in the clinches

Saving the ring and little else
only one tissue an eye
dripped insufficient
last box

a tissue in each corner
to watch her die
stifle a scream
sing a lullaby
put my voice in her
to ring out hush tones
wring out tissues
silhouetted shreds in a box


Abt 6 Zawmb’yee Continues (ENTRY 82)

     This morning I felt strange. The purple bracelet on my left wrist only would slide a little bit. I wanted to put on my wide silver bracelet and then put on my gold charm bracelet. I thought it would be a funky tricolor expression. There wasn’t enough space for all three.

     I took a shower wearing the purple bracelet that seems to have shrunk and is too small to take off. I was thinking that I should read Ziohat’s blog to see if he is really a bumbling, harmless person not capable of stumbling into anything important. Doug seems to think that Ziohat has no idea about our secret culture, and just thinks that we’re a bit eccentric. Yeah, I guess we should try to be a little less eccentric and blend in better.
     I’m beginning to embrace the up-top culture which, I think, is what Utcoozhoo wanted me to do — uh, well, I suppose he really wanted me to learn about it, but not embrace it.
     I got an e-mail message from Fewo Jegucso saying they had a way-out, blowout designer sale. Yeah, maybe, I should run out while I have the chance and get Christian Nuiduim suede booties at only $700, and the Marc Pestymorvo totes for only $600. Hey, all the designer handbags and shoes that I could ever dream of getting are all now on sale. Well, I don’t know, it seems all about prestige. I mean, it can’t really cost that much to make a handbag or a shoe as a raw leather object with stitches, can it? I buy a brand name so other women can admire me? I mean, Doug likes me naked, doesn’t he? No, I don’t mean sexually, just that he likes me as a person without decoration. Uh, well, most of the time, I think.
     Dare I say that fashion is empty. No, I think that blasphemy should always be a last resort. I think I’ll just print Ziohat’s blog while I think about it all.

Abt 6 Zawmb’yee Continues (ENTRY 81)

     I wondered why I would say, “not now,” when I had always succumbed to a moment. I could have fallen as, oh, I was feeling so engulfed in a metcar or maybe a ipzabexr, and Doug is such a cute animal, but Utcoozhoo wanted me to resolve this problem with Ziohat, and I didn’t really know that much about him. I said to Doug, “How did this Ziohat character get the idea to create an artificial cave in the rock bluff above our cave complex?”

     Doug, sighing in disappointment, said, “He just wanted an exotic, out of the way location on a cliff suitable for a Guru. It was his way to hype the hippies, make a movement. You know, be groovy, far out, cool, an avänt-gärde, he thought, but no matter how much he tried, Jack Chelka always called him the ‘fake guru’. ”
     “Jack Chelka?”
     “Yeah, I think he was the only one in the group who had a genuine interest in poetry itself.”
     “What group?”
     “Ziohat called it the Xyiwa poets, and Utcoozhoo told me to join the group to learn up-top poetry. It was supposed to begin a rebellion in poetry to embrace the Zeitgeist: love, peace, compassion, and rock-and-roll — ‘power to the people.’ You know, all that jazz and blues, and psychedelic enlightenment ..”
     “Supposed to … ?”
     “Well, as far as the poetry went, it was mostly angst. But actually Ziohat wasn’t really interested in promoting poetry … ”
     “The guru thing I guess was a little bsoei and veb, uh, games. Right (and if you say, ‘Ubemuwx!’ again, I’ll slap you silly) ?”
     “Yeah. I think you have it pegged. Yeah, he was all excited about Camille, a rich older woman, who was his patron, and paid for the construction of the poetry cave. The whole thing to him was just a gimmick to attract chicks and an excuse for an orgy. There were some pretty wild parties in the cave.”
     “And you?”
     “Uh, me too … ”
     “Thought so … ”
     “Don’t think so much … ”
     “I have to . We have a problem with Ziohat, and I have to get to know something about him … What ever happened to the group?”
     “Well, it was disbanded years ago, and the club was closed down and sealed. I guess I’m the last of the Xyiwa poets. But recently, Ziohat has been cleaning up the mess left behind, and has been rummaging through the storage boxes. I gave him a blog to post some of the poetry he recovered.”
     “What poetry is that?”
     “I made copies of what he found so far — I can show it to you, but could we do this tomorrow?”
     “Uh, well, the thing is: he seems to be remodeling and expanding. We don’t want him finding one of our secret entrances … ”
     Doug sighed again. “Don’t worry, he won’t … You know, I was dreaming of you before you jumped on the bed .. ”
     “Yes, you told me.”
     “And you came in here to unwind and relax. Right? ‘Cause you love me,you came in here, blue eyes, gorgeous one … ”
     “Sometimes it’s not love after a hard day, but a desperation to avoid metca, you know, anxiety.”
     “I relieve your metca because I love you.”
     “And I don’t suppose you enjoy the process?”
     “You are beautiful you know.”
     “Well, um, Utcoozhoo, always says, eujxami.”
     “Well it’s somewhat like the French expression: ‘La beauté sans vertu est une fleur sans parfum’
     “Which means?”
     ” ‘Beauty without virtue is like a flower without perfume’. ”
     “And that’s what the Utd’mbts word means?”
     “Sort of … ”
     That’s when I lost it and couldn’t help but pull down his pants and see that his beauty was already standing erect saluting me. I gave it a few licks and got up from bed. Doug grabbed my arm, but I managed to reach the night table. I let Doug pull me back onto the bed and I rolled a condom over his beautiful hardness.