Week of December 22-28, 1997: Mert Guswiler and Dylan Taylor Singletary

Mert Guswiler  and Dylan Taylor Singletary

Mert Guswiler


Mert (who seldom uses her last name unless she has to do so) is a native Ohioan currently ensconced in the Nevada desert She has lived and worked all over the world, earning her living with words in a career that only can be described as eclectic The proper tags for such eclecticism are print journalist in the US and abroad, instructor/trainer, California lawyer, and contract technical writer/editor/researcher for government and private industry The chain on which all of these “careers” hang is that of creative writer, with initial publication occurring at the age of 14 years Since then, Mert has had a book of poems published as well as short stories and articles/essays, and has garnered awards both in the U.S and abroad in print journalism and a few other categories Samples of her poetry and short stories can be found on various internet sites but to date she has not had time to create her own web page She has completed two books and is working on two others (“I seem to do things in twos”) Publication of the completed books (short synopsis of each follows) is her next step.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Mert Guswiler and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Love Trilogy

I (To )

quickly so
silence within announcing
and eternity SHOOK
hands and were
welded all of a piece
labeled NOW
phonetically spelled
while the un sat
keeping the world
in piece the power of
balance trembled
slipped and tilted
mathematically mutating
a one-half to one
exploding in an age
producing masses
and translated ‘progress’
I love.

II (A Drink of Water)

unconcern of all and
gray-surrounded also
person watching
while you reach for
cup and turning spigot
innocent the
water while the
thund’ring blood of spirit
and in guilty
rising dying
pride and fear dishonest
for a reprieve
that will silence
blazing desert without
parched non-living
lost to spring rains never
quenching thirsty
questing, needing
more than just a drink of

III (Return)

Ah, is it you, you’ve come back
with eyes snapping and teeth glist’ning; framing words I thought I’d never
hear again and, upon hearing,

fail to understand The waiting,
watching, day by day ’til nightfall —
of these things I cannot yet speak —
try to tell you or the world the

nights unblackened, blindly glaring
(bright outlining dark hair over
white and starch-ed collar needing
cutting) until raw and bleeding

wretched heart that bade you enter
softly whisp’ring, ‘close the door, love, isolate us from the false and
ever treach’rous and insatiate,

dull, insensitive and timeless,
glossy, webby maze of truth’ that
even at that moment then was
pers’nally engraving our own

long un-stayed and ever hopeless
muted farewell — ‘though defiant —
reached the bowels of earth and echoed
’til the soles of your feet patt’ring

down the staircase of my being
through the door I could not enter
(and which closed and banged staccato)
an irrevocable finis
made of gray and nothing-flowing
days that reached out for each other
seeking comfort and time-passing
to erupt into this now-day

and the hour of your coming: it is
you there with your smiling —
tending once again the fire that
even now of old arises,

tingeing all the static white clouds,
streaking o’er the burnt horizon;
once again all else is stifled
(and the oxygen deserts me) —

gasping, struggling, yes I see you
and my wonderment is such that
out of drugged and pain-filled past comes this — a moment joy-filled present

on its way to nameless future —
flying words that have no meaning;
for you’ve come back and there is no
open door here to receive you.

Dylan Taylor Singletary


My name is Dylan “Taylor” Singletary, and I am a poet residing in Vista, California — which is, by the way, near San Diego I am nearing the eighteenth year of my life, and am fixated on going to San Francisco State University where I will study the cinema and hopefully someday become a director My main influences for my writing is a mix of Jack Kerouac, William S Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Tom Robbins, Stephen King, Tim Burton, and alot of Danny Elfman

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Dylan Taylor Singletary and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Day One to Day Six

Day one to day six destiny calls the shots in the evening drowned by prepubescent earthling snores,
fertilized by dying children drying in the dawning sunlight of yesterday’s dawn,
i sit upon virgin rock sits upon white snow upon earth on day one of attack one where doris eats her oats,
lightning comes first showering the sky against plaid window panes breaking giving blood read pains and screams down lovers lane ending in a tidal wave of showering kisses,
day two of attack one, where the eyes stop inside of communistic totalitarian tongue tingling denial of destiny calling for another shot of tequila,
this one with the worm he says as it grasps for the table in the sunlit foyer of a mansion room designed by two negroes from the south-north side of town,
tv babies call from table right singing songs about winning their war against the boarders who never did care along with politicians soaking their feet in cement paved walk on the sides alone again, the lamp is going out,
becoming day three of attack one,
the amnesia wears off,
first realisation of happening what,
did the earth sit still as it died away and dyed to black against monoleum marble coated deviled eggs back from days one and two, day three already and the people see no colour and realise that there never was the colour that they thought they say, i still don’t see the colour and assuming that i am right, the colour doesn’t see anyway,
day four sneaks right up and destiny calls the shots for attack two, affecting the minds of those left,
rolling skating down the street come legions and legions of lost mimes painted faces black and white no colour no colour drowned in oil smells down what’s left of the subterranean sewers where i lived so long ago and i wonder where did i ever go and why still am i alive to tell the tale of day four or day three or day two or day one for that matter,
this journal of blood and tears that is for my glory and will be my selfish glory should i be ashamed of myself for what i right recording history as i see it while a pitiful man walks across the street in front of me and no tears no tears no tears i cry at the cat who can’t find home perhaps the last cat i’ve ever seen and will ever see,
wonder if store i could milk i buy, destiny buys the rounds for me this time deals to be made people to hang says he’s responsible as, day five comes into play day five like a sty in the eye the one that hurt us so bad that we black and blue soldiers walked the valley of doubt while children on lookers prayed and hoped that we would be destroyed on our faces of fear and hope that when we were over we’d be over like a-1 when steak is done nothing at stake left to save,
“i say my boy let me make you a deal” as he passes the drink too stupid am i to ask what could be in it and then i fall away into attack three the betrayal and it being so dark and lonely in betrayal i stupidly scream out the classic “et tu brute then fall caesar” line as i am washed away before i get this last word out i slime across the paper and no one sees me again day six, today.



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