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send yr poems to markk@deepcleveland.com
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art contributed by s.a. griffin |
We're in that same
formation
that IV formation.
still afire since levy fest,
so many birds on different wires,
other poles but same
fluid
power
drive away the night
in their own town,
fly over mine in their time.
levy's white
flowers or panties
flutter down over painted states
watch the fluttering like leaves
or transcribe
war pome
i heard crickets on
the inside of dively
except it weren't crickets it
were levy type egyptian scarabs
from a motor running
on gas. (we pay.
from the reading at dive
ewe ching
i ching
shit pomes
couch lay
,nice.
the opposite of in theory is actually
i learned that d.a. liked chocolate
a lot.
wholesale and discounted
the same.
russell talked about a salon
at which poets dished
and didn't write.
according to wagner
'another wide open receiver
telling you go to sleep'.
and why know a
reference when you can
have an image free.
each poem wets his pants
in a new way.
on thompson
before daniel died he was a poet friend,
called me at home sometimes
to tell me stories of when he was alive
/and i would sometimes call him too—
asking him what word do i mean^
and forming a masso-collage over the
phone /& sometimes he'd dig where
i was and pic't words from the
big dic in the sky
-but two times
i faked it with him,
made him think twice he brought forth
just the word for which i'd lie
i am not always a right and true wife.
OHm at the doctor's
amplified ed
sanders spoke
chimes over
archived.
hearing chimes
where they are
not really.
What's your Millar CAPACITY?
Let's just say
that average is 2500?
in her hands was a liar
in her hands was a lyre
in her traction, interaction
heaven is a group activity
(Salamon says)
admit it out loud
and get embarrassed.
in her hands was a liar
(Salamon didn't say)
window faces across from csu tower building
braided windows
of other windows
wavy & at attention
1 stand
2 look out but not at
to show their grave, indif-
ferent faces of war
3 blink less
(slow blink barely)
and
it is the same sad message
of the dying rock faces of Zion
-
everywhere in Zion is a sad face growing
and every where old in proud submission
to more being eventually more, sweet
men of the unmoving face (of war)
smith, larry
i'm not sure i got it
right but heard larry say
creating empathy is a violent act
of love?
Lang & i
saw an EMS parade
on st. clair- the truck was
going slower than
the siren
while jiminy cricket crooned
on the radio bout 'drinking while singin'
and Manna Kinder was
that woman up there
leaning over her baby
atop Rockefeller- there is a national terminality
out the window and
we are Smithsonian in our
restraint.
we've got to drink the wine on time
for D.R. Wagner
with the varying degrees of smoke
and hunger, muscle ache and sleep.
otherwise one or the other will
take over and we are ones for autonomy only.
is it our body heat?
for d.a. levy
the way the vapor splits & dissipates,
curtains of various longing & the spring,
the yellow crocus of imagining,
a fog of desperate contradictions
-- i am with u kent taylor in san francisco's bright fog, i am with u jim lowell in an asphodel eternity, i am with you rjs in burton's desolate winter --
a removal, the venom that strikes in psychedelic chaos, reverberations that snarl in seismic trances, the number of variations i aspire to create, the turn of the key, lapse of vagrant species, turning toward eastern skies in vast reflections, ornate rejoinder, corpus delecti, a forest of infernal recollections, focused upon granite orbs, in orbit, orphan moonlight, thick as country cream, voluminous quadrant, the jettison of chronic stars where the smooth asphalt smiles like a jaguar
-- i am with u russell salamon in gilded los angeles, i am with u eternally young d.r. wagner in sacramento, i am with u tom kryss in yr vision of rabbits --
elite in royal nimbus, triumphant,
the brick hit versus the nervous titillation,
drumbeat the ram, comfort in streaks of desperation,
for the tragic little remissions, i ask for the trance of asteroids
-- i am with u george fitzpatrick in the ashes of yr painting, i am with u steve ferguson in yr afternoon job, i am with u alex gildzen in new mexico's flowers --
i project the reach of fertile blasphemy, a torn sweater, the way i drive this creation on sanctified roads, the holy vapor, the suicide vapor, the relentless vapor, i am tired of this rumination, twisted like copper wires, tired & exhausted, removed from casual conversation, worn out, imploded, the way tail lights wink like a carnegie avenue whore, the apron of sunsets & gestures, i am the king of yr fabric
-- i am with u sandy levy in the memory of our phone calls, i am with u grace butcher on yr immaculate run, i am with u ingrid swanberg in yr philosophies of wisdom --
versatile, ruinous, furnace pleats of tribal yodels,
the remorse, the fuel, the speed at which we race along distant tracings,
why am i the chosen one, he who deliberates in free reason,
walking, a thrust, in a haze, the the dirt of salvation
-- i am with u tony walsh in yr subterranean voicetrail, i am with u richard krech on yr golden path back, i am with you susan koppelman in silver freedom --
a butter of essence, my volatile trumpet song, the feathers that fall from the ass of a bird in full flight, contemplations & calculations, i drive on in hot pursuit, the levitations & blood, i drive on and on, potholes & gas stations, yard signs & brushed neon, yellow lines & crushed buildings, lost opportunities, the grace of the road
-- i am with u john cornillion, in mutual underground thought patrol, i am with u walter keller in yr ghoulardi wig, i am with u mara in yr drawings of soul --
holy the fuel & fire, my immediate mischief,
remarkable treatise, the starting point for love,
harmony perfecting manifestation, tribulation,
bouquets of roses greased with mischief & offense like a candle
-- i am with u john scott in hawaii's volcanic wonder, i an with u geoffrey cook bringing it all back home, i am with u alan horvath, keeper of the mimeo flame ––
i run the gallilee marathon to the king, violence for small packages, teeth, the pilot, i am tired, exhausted, replaced, vanquished, my own memory layered like horse hide, open & trellised, vertical lamplight, the car i race toward yr open arms, today is yesterday in reverse, love of explanatory sunshine, twist, wiggle, focus watching on turpentine hill, music that only my face can make, honest like a mute machine
-- i am with u d.a. levy on yr beautiful trajectory into cleveland's neon dayglo stained-glass technicolor tomorrow --
yes (exhaust) the tailpipe, listen,
the fumes of reason, vanish (exhaustion)
i bear this cross, my psychic wisdom,
yr perfect body, our mutual mind
(locus, nexus, triumph)
cep cep
An energy draws us here to levyland,
and each comes looking for him
who is gone and the reason why,
the levy in our minds. rj says it:
“Cleveland was his own mind, and
Isreal was what Is-Real, the kingdom
not of this earth.”
And what is real here
are the assembled works in library light,
printed or painted with his hands, his
own energy flowing through the page.
And the eyes of good friends come home
to him: Tom Kryss and Kent Taylor, Russell Salamon
and D.R. Wagner, George Fitzpatrick and Steve Ferguson,
Ingrid Swanberg and then DagMar, rising before us.
And we all stand in the silences knowing
that in the act of giving we find ourselves, and
levy stands behind us in the mirror.
your young pastels
fade to bright clear
vivid lies
upfront
red. blood. death.
Monet dreams
knifed and
scraped to form
Basquiat-like sprawl
across a
whatthefuck? universe,
right to this present-tense
curse.
hey you!
walkin' man
gang raped,
rolled and crushed
under Lolly the Trolly's
artificial tenderness
still strolling through
this City, this baby blue abyss
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