collected poems: 1968-2007 · web viewpoems and incidental pieces written in coffee shops. from...

The Coffee ShopPoems and Incidental Pieces Written in Coffee Shops

from June to August 2016

By Don Gerz

Copyright © by Don Gerz: 2016


by Don Gerz from June to August 2016

How Poetry Works

A poem has special ways of being and working that differ from other forms of communication. A poem aims at TRUTH, not facts (although a fact may be used, usually to get the poem going). A poem aims at SPIRIT, not details...although it might use a detail from where to begin. A poem must be read as a WHOLE with a purpose that exceeds the worth of its component parts. A poem is greater than the sum of its words, phrases, sentences, and stanzas. It is not merely a collection of isolated words. The essence of the poem is its overall message and atmosphere, not its details. This is true of all poems.

Poems have their own purposes and are not undilutedly biographical or even compositely autobiographical literary sketches.

However, the poet is permitted to catch a bit of actual dialogue or a paraphrase of a piece of real dialogue, but that does not make the poem biography or even autobiography.

Not even the poet has complete control over how the poem takes shape. A good poem almost writes itself, and the poet has to get out of the way or yield to the dictates of the poem. Of course, the genres of biography and autobiography have to adhere to fact.

Consequently, readers focusing on biographical or even autobiographical elements in the poem will not significantly aid in experiencing the poem as a universe in and of itself. In fact, such a focus inevitably impedes understanding and appreciation.

Poetry is a creation of a new existential and emotional experience--a whole new world--and all the elements of a poem must be considered in light of all the other elements within it so the reader may become immersed in that new world of being and feeling.

In other words, biography is biography, autobiography is autobiography, and poetry is poetry. Each genre must be read accordingly.

June 4, 2016

2



Pieces of Eden

A crossword here,a Sudoku theresnatches of conversation across the room...

Life is snapped together like a puzzlemade from the pieces of other puzzles.

We have long ago abandonedreconstructing the original image.

Instead, we fashion new images,approximations of Edenclosed to the Publicthousands of years ago.

While perfect,the image of what was meant to beis inferior to the pastiche of what is,missing pieces and all...

Snatches of conversations,wordplay leading to business deals,marriage proposalsbirths, deaths, dissertations, and moreentice our Edenic impulselike a puzzle fated to incompleteness...and therefore mortally unfinished.

If we ever found all the pieces of Eden,we would cease to strive toward itand stop trying to live it.

For it is not in us to be contentwith the pieces of a puzzlethat is already completein another Landthat we can see but not touch...

now.

June 7, 2016

3



Coming and Going

Flying over

a shopping center

parking lot,

a mockingbird

rests on

a light pole,

giving

no thought

of where

and why

it comes

and goes.

Gazing

in astonishment

out of windows,

we sip

coffee

and wonder

what it must be like

to come

and go

like a bird,

like a bird,

like a bird.

June 9, 2016

4



Alone Together

With an I-Phone in one hand and a Samsung in the other,he looks up from yesterday’s USA Todaybecause a real human being is talking,apparently to him.

He places an index finger on a wordof a story about Muhammad Ali’s deathand looks up from his paperto see who’s talking to him.

Oh, it’s his girlfriend.Flesh and blood, with all the inconveniencesof blood and flesh,she has only one hand-held deviceand apparently thinks he might like to knowshe loves him.

After all, he is her boyfriend,and she is his girlfriend.

He smiles and returns to the storyof a fighter who lived withouthand-held devices...a man who did thingsothers still read about.

What a strange landwhere the living are dead,and the dead immortal.

June 10, 2016

5



The Living Daylights

What a strange landwhere the living are dead,and the dead immortal...

Reminders of life well-livedand deaths well-died...

Where the living dead live empty livesof quiet desperation...

And where true life is measuredby the living daylights...

Where the bloodless die on vines,and a thousand cowardsexcuse themselves from standing

On formalities forgottenlike dancing cards at summer cotillionsand debutante parties in country clubs...

And why not throw in mint juleps,fraternities, sororities, and life full of lifeas it was once known,

When nothing was more importantthan coming out alive?

______________________________________________________________________June 12, 2016

6



The Thing Is(With a Nod to Friedrich Nietzsche)

Things in and of themselves are a problemfor a number of reasons, not the least of which is that,while things may seem to exist,it is their characteristics that truly exist,not things in and of themselves.

But you might exclaim,“How can things not exist?”

A thing exists only to the extent that we perceive itin space and time,in type and kind.

But you might observe,“Space and time,type and kind,are things in and of themselves.”

The way we experiencespace and time,type and kind,is through their characteristics,not in and of themselves.

And you might observe,“Then these words do not exist,just their characteristics.”

Correct.

Then you might say,“Where does this leave us?”

Characteristics leave uswherever we want them to leave us.

And you might say,"I want us to be left in love.”

June 15, 2016

7



We’re Not So Bad“Whom do you call bad? He who makes others feel ashamed.”

“What is the most humane thing? To spare others shame.”“When is freedom attained? When we no longer feel ashamed.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Who among us has not wastedsacred time on shame?

Who among us has not allowedhim or herselfto be sentencedto the hell of shame for trying and failing...or, for that matter,for succeeding?

Who among us have not separatedourselves from the safe herdto chance the fortunesof individual achievement?

Who among us have nothad the shame of othersprojected onto our livesin the making?

When we stop wasting our timeon shame...

we’re not so bad.

When we spare others shame...

we’re not so bad.

And, when we refuse the shameand fear of others...

we’re not so bad.

June 16, 2016

8



Crazy Horse(1840-1877)

His name meant, “His Horse Is Crazy,” which in battle must have indeed appeared to be so because his horse ran here and there, everywhere except where you could shoot it. It ran right at you; it ran diagonally; it ran away from you; and it inexplicably even ran parallel to the line of the battle, which, like all battles, was in continuous flux.

It follows that, if you couldn’t shoot Crazy Horse’s horse, you couldn’t shoot Crazy Horse himself. Once, during a battle with the Shoshones, when he and his brother were in dire straights, Crazy Horse yelled, “Take care of yourself, and I will do the fancy stunt.” He did, and both of them not only lived, but Crazy Horse took a scalp, and both brothers captured two horses and then galloped to the safety of the Black Hills, the home of the Oglala Sioux.

The Black Hills (“The Heart of All That Is”) was the home of the Oglala Sioux like Red Cloud, Short Buffalo, Black Elk, Little Big Man, Touch the Clouds (who was seven feet tall), Spotted Tail (a Brule Sioux), He Dog, American Horse, and Sitting Bull, who was a Hunkpapa Sioux, not Oglala like Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse fought with Sitting Bull at Little Big Horn and, of course, won. He also fought with Red Cloud at The Fetterman Fight, known as Red Cloud’s War. That was a great victory for the Sioux as well.

Crazy Horse was never defeated, although he had to surrender to the U.S. Army because apparently it was going to take the entire U.S. Army to kill Crazy Horse. The “fancy stunt” would work on a few hundred Indians and maybe a thousand army cavalry, but Crazy Horse wasn’t crazy enough to think it would work on an entire army. Even his horse wasn’t crazy enough to think that.

Crazy Horse died in the custody of the U.S. Army in his late thirties, bayoneted by a guard who thought he was trying to escape. So foreign was captivity to him, Crazy Horse did not even realize his movements were limited during custody. He did not know the meaning of limits. For him, The Black Hills (“The Heart of All That Is”), the universe itself, was without limits and certainly without borders.

He simply walked out of the building he was in to get a bit of fresh air. It never occurred to him that he was no longer free. Later that night, he died a free man. They never got around to putting him in jail. He died on the floor, declining an army cot.

Crazy Horse was never wounded in battle. No photograph or drawing exists of him. He would not allow his photograph to be taken or even a drawing of him to be made.

Yet we know all we need to know of the Oglala Sioux warrior named Crazy Horse, for his spirit is in us as human beings. When we have the spirit of Crazy Horse, we know him better than any history book or documentary can tell us, for his spirit is great and beyond all limits.

June 17, 2016

9



Looking Up

I’m not sure when it happened.

Was it when the little girllooked up at her motherwith admiration, trust, and well-being?

Was it when the manwith a positive attitudeasked the clerkhow she was doing...and meant it?

It could have beenwhen the ladywith a bad hipsmiled at meas though shewas not in pain...which she had to be.

Perhaps it was whenI saw a man crippled with Parkinson’sstill working ina grocery store,and doing his job well.

It could very well have beenwhen the little boy walkedin front of his mother,looking back every nowand then to make surehe was goingin the right direction.

I think it was when I wrote this.

Things are looking up.

June 24, 2016

10



The Russian Hitchhiker

Yesterday I was flagged down by a beaming, overweight young Russian named Igor who vigorously, no, emphatically (almost violently) insisted I drive him to a restaurant about a mile away. I think it was a restaurant he was wanting to go to; after all, he spoke no English, and I speak no Russian.

Seconds before our encounter, I had been turning around in a parking lot because I had missed my turn, and he had been churning down the sidewalk in front of the parking lot. He had a gigantic grin on his huge sunburned face, a face wider than the sidewalk he was striding down at a surprising clip.

I thought he had been wildly waving to me to proceed as I waited for him to pass so I could make a right-hand turn out of the parking lot. He was beaming, almost as though he knew me. He might as well have, because he sure had my number.

Turned out he was looking for a ride.

It seemed life or death...maybe my death, so who was I to argue? He spent the whole time while I was driving yelling in my right ear, "Da, da, da, da!" and banging his fist on my dashboard to punctuate each “da!”

When I got him to where he wanted to go (it was a restaurant), he bolted out of my car, stuck his big beaming Russian face in my window and yelled one final and triumphant "DA!"

I cannot determine the meaning of my uncanny encounter with Igor.

And I cannot explain why I felt invigorated by my startling meeting with this young Russian hitchhiker.

Perhaps I was experiencing complete immersion in the vat of pure BEING...almost as if I were engendering what would happen for the rest of my life, improvising as I went to where I knew not, both physically and existentially.

The experience felt creative, living from second-to-second with some form of grace.

As Jack Parr used to say, “I kid you not.”

And, as Igor would say, “Da!”

June 24, 2016

11



Meeting

chargingelectric tubes,

transfusingtransparentred and whiteblood cells,

immersingin vats ofundiluted being,

engendering,

makingwhat happenshappen,

improvising,

climbing intothe unknownwhere no onecan imaginewhat it means

to meet you,

creatingpossibilities,known andunknown,

living frominstant toinstant

grace

June 26, 2016

12



Staying Alive

It’s harder than it looks,staying alive,as the Bee Gees put it.

A dragonfly slides throughthe air on its wayto where its whim takes it.

Staying alive.

Two women hug.They haven’t seen each otherfor at least a week.

Staying alive.

A man orders a coffee with a smile,and he is given his coffee...with a smile.

Staying alive.

A woman re-parks her carso her front bumper will not intrudeinto her neighbor’s space.

Staying alive.

A man snaps his fingersto a song about a woman as high as Cleopatra.

Staying alive.

A woman with a busted hipclunks into the spacewhere the dragonfly was.

Staying alive, staying alive.

June 28, 2016

13



Ignoble Savages

The Lakota hunter,a noble “savage,”notches a single arrow,and shoots it straight throughthe sacred buffalo’s holy heart.

He skins the huge animal,salts and packs the meat,loads it and all its partson his horsesand brings it backto the villagefor all to be nourished.

Not a single partof the sacred animalgoes unused.

Old men and women,young children,and the sick survivebecause of this noble “savage.”

--------------------------------------------------

Later in the week“civilized” huntersin elegant train carswith red velvet benches and chairs.shoot and killhundreds of buffalowith their repeating riflesand unlimited bullets

They skin each for its hideand leave the carcassesto rot in the sunand feed the flies.

Ignoble savages.

June 28, 2016

14



Reality and the Written Word(Or, Why I Write)

In the piece below, please note I am emphasizing written language over and againstspoken language, which I will consider at another time. - Don Gerz

When you observe the world, you will notice not only separate places, things, events, and sentient and non-sentient beings. In addition, you will observe fragmented and extemporized “plays,” unified and linked “narrations” or groups of scenes that follow a specific sequence unique to your sensibilities. Each play differs from person-to-person, but each follows a specific sequence of narrations or scenes within the plays and within the scenes of the plays themselves as perceived by each thoughtful person. No two plays are the same.

In fact, life is a series of informal plays loosely linked to each other. Not all will notice this linkage, but many do...especially those who dabble in the written word.

These uniquely perceived plays make up the constituent parts of what we call reality or life. Reality is, by its nature, composite, multi-leveled, and perceived and created by individuals with unique perspectives, perceptions, interests, and previous experience of acts and the symbols of those acts and thoughts, which, for lack of a better word, I refer to as language...especially written language.

If you write about your observations of the world and, of course, yourself, you will convey the world (and yourself as a part of the world) according to your individual habits of organizing, evaluating, and philosophizing about the world and you. Your words will be specific to you and to your unique perceptions, moods, previous experience, language, and ability to think and write the words, phrases, sentences, and longer written expressions of the scenes and narrations you perceive and then share with your readers.

By its nature, written language is more thoughtful, stable, cogent, sequential, comprehensive, fixed, artistic, philosophical, intentional, symbolic, and suitable for thought and study than is the spoken word. The spoken word is the fluid hummingbird to the written word’s fixed flower. Again, please note that this piece has been written, not to denigrate the spoken word over the written word, but rather to contrast one with the other.

While the spoken word has its own characteristics that are lacking in the realm of the written word, the written word is ideally suited to the observation, expression, perception, experience, creation, and philosophizing of those who convey and, indeed, actually create the scenes of the plays of composite reality...past, present, and future.

June 30, 2016

15



Lost?I remember driving and driving for miles,

not knowing where I was.The more I drove,

the more lost I became.

After awhile,I became so lostit became liberating.

I saw things I had never seen before,places I had never been to before,people I had never met before,sounds I had never heard...

before I became lost.

I continued driving and drivingto get more and more lost.

I succeeded beyond my wildest desires.

I missed all my appointments in my world,all my chances for my advancementin my corner of my old world,all opportunities in my former world...

my world lost beyond my wildest desires.

I realized I had new desires,new places to go,new people to make appointments with,new opportunities to make my mark...

a new world that one day I would lose as well.

How liberatingto lose the places that define youso you might definethe new places you find.

No matter how lost we become,we are never really lostas long as we have ourselves...and our wild desires.

July 2, 2016

16



Lines

Step right up, take a number,and wait your turn in line.

The English call it “cueing up.”Most call it waiting.

If you’re a good looking woman,you’ll hear plenty of lame lines

and a few good ones,especially in bars.

If you’re at a baseball game,you will often see a ball hit

on a frozen-rope line into the outfield,maybe over the fence for a home run.

When you’ve had it with someonewho has been taking advantage of you,

you’ll draw a line in the sand...if you value your worth.

If you look in the mirror,and life has taken its toll on you,

you’ll see many lines on your face.In fact, you’ll see lines all over your body.

If you fly the shortest distancebetween two points,

you’ll be flying in a straight line...allowing for the wind, of course.

Finally, you’ll be walking the line if you grow upto do the right thing more often than not...

to be someone others can look up to,someone whom others can count on.

And that’s no line.

July 10, 2016

17



Contingencies

If I could getmy blood pressure down,

I’d be a lot happier...so would my doctor.

If my neighborwould turn down his stereo.I’d be positively euphoric.

If my taxeswere not so high,

I could retire in ten years.

If my hairline wouldstop receding,

that would be fine with me.

If I would win the lottery,I’d have it made.

If my candidatewere elected President,this country would have

a fighting chance.

If I could findthe very best motor oil,

my car would last for at leastsix hundred thousand miles.

If I could land that job,I’d finally be satisfied.

If I could findthe right person,

I’d be happy.

If...if...if...

July 11, 2016

18



The Kid

A kid looks up as his mom orders a coffee for her and a pastry for him.

He must be 6 or 7.

But, whatever his age, the kid is right here and right now by his mom.

Kids like him are years away from drinks like coffee, but that does not matter because his mom is drinking and tasting for him, experiencing the world for him...a world he will drink and eat of fully for himself soon enough.

While his mom sips her coffee, the kid munches on his pastry...a roll with vanilla and chocolate frosting...a black and white confection showing his mom’s affection for him.

What will the kid remember about this moment when he’s 8, 12, 19, 34, 53, 62, 71, or older...long after he has tasted coffee and other drinks adults drink?

You can never figure out what a kid will remember.

Sometimes it may be the memory of triumphantly telling a neighbor you are 7, or pushing someone on a swing when you are 8, or jumping off a milk truck at 9, or crashing your bike at 10 and waking up in an ambulance with a concussion.

But right here and now, the kid and his mom are one.

Memories take care of themselves.

July 12, 2016

19



Incoherently Yours

Dear _______________, (Fill in the blank.)

I wish I could explain it...gather all of history’s people, places, and times...explain them all to myself and then convey the whole thing to you...make a gift of all that was, is, and will be and then wrap it all up with white glossy paper and red ribbon and then place it under this year’s Christmas tree for you.

But I can’t. It would just be gibberish, words torn from each other and scattered by the wind over millions of miles and years.

I wish I could account for myself, explain why I say and do the things I say and do...why I think the way I do...why I write what and the way I do...what I am thinking about just before falling asleep...I wish I could lay it all on the table with clearly articulated misgivings, convictions, doubts, assurances, failings, and successes...all for you.

But it’s impossible. Although everything is present in a never-ending now, it’s all tangled up like slippery spaghetti in butter on a hot dish.

I wish I could heal you, heal every man, woman, and child. I wish I could heal myself. I wish I could restore the lives of all humans and every species, clean up every body of water, purify the air, and restore the Earth to a pristine state.

But, I can’t.

As I fall asleep tonight and every night, you and all these matters will be on my mind, and I will send best wishes to you and to the four corners of the universe.

That I can do for you, for me, for all.

Incoherently yours,

_________________ (Fill in the blank.)

July 14, 2016

20



Faith and Belief

The relationship between faith and belief is not as obvious as many of us often think.

We all try to act in faith, but, more often than not, we miss the mark.

A life of faith is necessarily based on social and collective experiences that go back thousands of years and define the lives of those who adhere to a given religion's sacred tenets and the professional interpretations of its holy scriptures.

Belief is a day-by-day proposition; faith is eternal.

By its nature, belief is individual, psychological, existential, and, above all, unstable.

On some days one is burning with an almost scriptural fervor.

At other times, the same individual leans toward tepidity, a momentary agnosticism, or even temporary atheism.

Faith is stable while belief fluctuates like the stock market: up on Monday, down on Tuesday, and back up again on Wednesday.

Belief is a product of free will and honest individual reflection; faith is bequeathed;

Faith is collective; belief is solitary.

Belief is a haiku; faith is an epic poem.

Faith is a symphonic orchestra; belief is a jazz quartet.

Belief is the wind; faith is a rock.

And, more than anything, faith is a gift, and belief is hard work.

July 12, 2016

21



The Same Old, Same Old

Did you watch the news today?

People come and go,but the news is a film stuckin the eternal presentwith no idea of howit should go forward,or even where forward is.

You think the news can only happenwhen no one’s looking...but everyone sees itas it rambles on likean inevitable freight trainwith no brakes.

We can never get it through our headsthat the same old, same oldhappens over and over again,but it does...every day...on the hour...every hour.

Between commercialsand the weather,the news always happens...relentlessly.

Lives are short,but we have each otherbetween the weather, the commercials,and especially duringthe same old, same old.

July 15, 2016

22



A Writer's Manifesto I am interested in uncovering the unseen essence of a person, place, thing, and,

especially, a moment in time.

I am interested in uncovering essence, period.

I am interested in observing and writing without preconceived notions. I am hopeful that my readers will not read me with their preconceived notions.

I am interested in seeing and describing something important that is fleeting but that leaves a permanent trace of eternity.

I am interested in writing about what is not known but recognized as present all along once I uncover and describe it.

I am interested in writing about the passing that sneaks into permanence and the eternal that sneaks into the moment.

I am interested in recognizing the unrecognizable.

I am interested in writing about “common” and “ordinary” people, places, and things that turn out to be extraordinary when given a second glance.

I am NOT interested in religion informing what I write. Rather, I am interested in informing religion by what I write.

I am NOT interested in politics informing what I write. Rather, I am interested in informing politics by what I write.

I am interested in the counter-intuitive as well as the intuitive.

I am interested in morals and in the consequences of choices, but not in moralizing.

I am interested in the plethora of perceptions and in the nature of reality and perception of reality.

I am interested in conveying the experience of the smallest and the largest parts of all that exists and how and why experiencing one is experiencing the other.

I am interested in mystery wherever it may take me and my writing. I invite my readers to come along for the ride.

Again, more than anything, I am intensely interested in uncovering essence in the most unlikely persons, places, and experiences.

July 25, 2016

23



Laptop Bossa NovaThe 3-year old girl

in a stroller,

sits contentedly,

in a coffee shop.

playing

with her interactive

little girl’s laptop

while mommy and daddy

play

with their big interactive

adult laptops

as Astrud Gilberto

gently sings

“The Girl from Ipanema”

from 52-years ago

while the Bossa Nova

beat entices

the rounded murmurs of

Stan Getz’s sax,

his phrases wafting

in,

out,

and between

Gilberto’s silky notes

sung to a contented little girl

sitting in a stroller in a coffee shop

while her mommy and daddy

play their own notes

on their laptops.

July 23, 2016

24



Between EarsWhen writing a poem,

whatever you do,don’t pullan idea

from your headand put it on paper

where someone might get hurtby reading it.

And, if you do,please put it back

where it won’t bother anyone.

Your headis the last place

where you will find real lifebecause real life

does not existbetween the ears

where murky reflections of real lifefloat and finally drown

in puddles of false imagesof flesh, blood, and

all the concrete and steelthat hold the material world together

for Spirit to bring everyone to lifeand life to everyone.

Without Spirit,there is no life.

Without life,there is no poetry...

only spaces between ears.

July 29, 2016

25



New Things and Other Such StuffA

newthing

isa

thingto

behold,a

thingto

nurtureas

Naturenurturesthings

createdoutof

miasmasof

no-thingcirclingaroundheads

ina

universethat

waitswith

breathbated

fornewstuff

orbitingaround

stillmorenewstuff.

July 30, 2016

26



The Fear of Self

A President with braces on his legs once said,“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

He was close,but there are as many things to fearas there are black holes in this universe.

And that’s the problem: We think too much.

From the moment we get out of bed in the morninguntil we get back in,we think of all the things that can go wrong...

Things that can hurt us in a million ways...

People who might humiliate us...

Friends who might wash their hands of us...

Finances...health...traffic...the weather...

The neighbors...the government...crime...

Strangers...nothingness...suicide...

Even our ideas of God.

Most of all, and without realizing it,we fear ourselves becausewe are our greatest enemies.

All the things and people we fear are really our inabilities to rise above the fears

we cling to like a child clings to its rag doll.

In fact, we are rag dolls,playing with our rag doll selves,and the greatest fear we have is...

the fear of ourselves.

July 30, 2016

27



The Deal That Never Ends

They have this deal at my favorite coffee shop where, after two in the afternoon, all drinks are half-price. Well, that was the way it was until today. Now every drink is full price all day, every day, probably until the end of time. At least it feels that way.

I was disappointed...all of us were. We took the half-price deal for granted.

We take our lives for granted, don’t we? We act as though we and all our loved ones will live forever; yet others leave this earth every day. Eventually, so will we.

The deal is off.

Today I was talking to a woman about the birthday of her husband, who would have been eighty-nine years old had he still been on this planet.

When I was a boy, he taught me how to shoot a gun, how to tell a joke, and how to look at life as something you give to others instead of waiting for others to give life to you.

He was a tire salesman who taught me that a salesman does not actually sell things: he sells himself.

And he was a great salesman because he was a great man.

He taught me how to be my own man. He did it in a hundred ways. Once, he even taught me to be myself by explaining why his cat was the way it was. I’m not sure what his cat had to do with how to sell myself while remaining my own man, but it did.

By the way, I suppose I assumed the cat would live forever. It didn’t.

All things must pass...men, women, boys, girls...even mysterious cats with their famous nine lives.

No sale lasts forever, and most deals last no more than a month or two.

But while nothing lasts forever on this Earth, a true life is a deal that never ends.

If you don’t believe me, just ask any cat.

August 1, 2016

28



Don Gerz earned his B.A. degree in English and philosophy with minors in

secondary English education and psychology. He taught composition and

literature for twenty-two years at private high schools in Texas and

Georgia. Since 1978, Don has made his home in the Atlanta, Georgia area

with his wife, the former Carol Brunhoefer.

Online

A Portfolio of Literary, Academic, and Teaching Workshttp://www.orgsites.com/ga/donald-gerz-literary-academic-works/index.html

College Prep Assistance for Students and Their Parentshttp://www.orgsites.com/ga/millsprings/index.html

A Writers' Workshophttp://www.orgsites.com/ga/writers_workshop/index.html

Yellow Brick Road: A Journalhttp://dongerz.livejournal.com/

29

http://dongerz.livejournal.com/

http://www.orgsites.com/ga/writers_workshop/index.html

http://www.orgsites.com/ga/millsprings/index.html

http://www.orgsites.com/ga/donald-gerz-literary-academic-works/index.html

collected poems: 1968-2007 · web viewpoems and incidental pieces written in coffee shops. from...

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