poetry & art inspired by levyfest

"Inspiration, move me brightly. light the song with sense and color;
Hold away despair, more than this I will not ask."
-- robert hunter
terrapin station

send yr poems to markk@deepcleveland.com


art contributed by s.a. griffin

poems by bree:


    We're in that same

that IV formation.


   still afire since levy fest,
so many birds on different wires,

other poles but same



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



  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


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)


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



     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?



poem by markk

exhaust (& exhaustion)

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



poem by larry smith

levyfest Cleveland 2005

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.



poem by joanne cornelius

fade to levy

your young pastels
fade to bright clear
vivid lies
red. blood. death.

Monet dreams
knifed and
scraped to form
Basquiat-like sprawl
across a
whatthefuck? universe,
right to this present-tense 

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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