hellish red north coast harbor
chain-link fence, gasoline dreams
twisting a wrench on greasy bolts
standing on the rubble of crucified days
with a junkyard smile and a razor-toothed leer
with steel-toed boots and no one to blame
city wind blows darkly tonight.
cracking the cold bars of a safe house
fleeing sad bondage creased with mutant flame
and propane elixir grinding gears in overdrive
i'm a coupe de ville outlaw, a camero-hard lover
on asphalt vistas concrete scenes
painted black and faded stomped into dust
cracked with rust, leaking lust
to the scream of an alley cat in a frigid winter
in reeking defiance reeling back on beat heels
unfocused and primitive, feral and hungry,
a wind blows darkly.
freighter rivets and lead bullets copper-tipped breathing
in a sour closet with forgotten bed sheets and neon shadows
cast on ratty floors a casket, a gasket nothing flying through
obsidian skies on the outskirts of town in the terminal flatlines
of a makeshift life. a wind blows darkly with no one to picture it,
a black and white memory outcast, fading fast
smoke and whiskey, the wretched grasp
of a suicide fever, torn off and discarded
forgotten and lost it's a stalemate bone
thrown to barking dogs and the lysol exhale
of a linament kiss steals ominous omens
monotonous movements skidding across the ragged
ruins of a morphine moon
tell me where the wind blows in dawning light.
tell me where raw chrome and blue steel shine pure and glorious.
tell me where they chant the names of the dead with reverence
swing forward and back on the loops of the sweating sun.
tell me where the bells peal in vanquished protest
and the trophies of lamplight switch on to reveal
one illumination one emancipation one examination
one revelation ripped out of shimmering time for me.
stuttering to life with splinters of glass shard
transmission fluid in lucid arteries
pleading for offspark screaming for voltage
i've mainlined misery tied off creaking veins
for a spiked deliverance from cast-iron promises
cold deals sealed in turpintine blood
on the bricks of these streets
in the steam of these grottos
in the heat of these garages
in the ice of warehouses
the carcass dreams of lost souls on borrowed time
in crossfire images of burning chevy graveyards
on the greasy waters with wharf erections
on the limestone jetties with sodium dust
and strychnine powder through tunnels of burlap
beneath sinking bridges and the spires of skyscrapers
in a bruising rain that drops from the sky
like gravity's fist
city wind blows darkly
a sinister wind
west to east
west full south
west due north
clutching closed windows, not even the nails of hell
can keep me from ripping out wood and glass
full frontal air
sweet air,
wailing free verses
into the merciless air
forlorn immigrant man in the twilight ranting
it wasn't really a walk,
more like a hiccup step
we'd see him at dusk,
a tiny old man clipping
up the uneven sidewalk
dusty brogans moving
gamely along, ill-fitting
suit coat across his sad
shoulders, cap askew on
his white hair: kill the
president! he'd shriek,
chop off his head! wrinkled
fist pumping in the air,
i'd look out the screen
door onto e. 34th st., see
him coming, & run for my
life, forlorn immigrant
man in the twilight ranting,
on his way back from the
bar with too much liquor
in him (mumbling away)
i search for lost angels, barely hear a word
we drive slowly along side streets
around w. 54th & fulton. joe g.
shakes his grey head, grimaces, says:
man, look at this place.-- i look around,
see boarded up stores, tumbleweed
litter blowing across filthy sidewalks,
a sad drunk geezer stumbling out of
one of those many tiny corner bars,
houses with peeling ancient paint &
plastic flapping on broken windows,
ripped paper circulars tacked up
on telephone poles advertising lost
dogs, discount tobacco, hey! work
from your home fer beeeeg bucks.
joe g. looks over at me, says:
theyÕd steal christ off the cross in
these damn neighborhoods. when the
good lord said forgive them, they know
not what they do, he said a mouthful,
Ôcause these people have no idea what
the hell they're doing.-- he lights another
filterless camel cigarette, shakes his
head some more, but me, i search for
lost angels, barely hear a word, he says:
didya hear what i said?-- halos, robes,
all is holy in a city pastiche (breathes true)
black smoke rushing from cracked windows
on the corner a house is on fire
black smoke rushing from cracked windows
child screaming in the street
lemon yellow fire engine
blowing water over the steaming roof
sirens wailing like a whiskey drunk
neighbors sit on broken door stoops
drink beer & watch chaos unfold
ahmed behind the counter
in the store across the street
watches in the window, hand on hips
cigarette held in thick hands
cop on the corner screaming obscenities
bike rider sliding by in black metal blur
feathery ash raining cinder sprinkles
puddles of water run through sad streets
downtown on the sour fringes in that crippled warehouse
by the railroad trestle, across from the creep bong distributor,
i cut through this alley littered with smashed glass
cigarette butts & malt liquor cans & crash out onto payne avenue
where i can see it all, like looking in a cracked picture window,
fat man in a dirty white undershirt, scar on his shoulder
selling vegetables from a cart, bag of tomatoes fer a buck,
the crazy lady with two different shoes & a wild orange hair
yelling about sassafras & fuck the police, cough hack cough,
black guy calling from a doorway hey man, you wanna buy
a leather coat? you'll like it, it's already broke in, heh heh,
cadillac with a gold grille parked out front of the timberline cafe,
fat white iron workers stalking the windows of sad porn shops,
playground with a metal pole sticking up from weedy asphalt cracks
where the merry-go-round once was & only chains left from swings
& the teeter totter burned to charcoal & all the hamburger wrappers,
guy with a hand-written sign calling for leonard peltier's freedom,
on the corner the stringy street kid selling stolen newspapers,
the old croatian man with white hair in his bathrobe
easing his lame legs up the sidewalk, a cane in each bony hand
& every day a carnival of chaos, a dreamfever, a beatdown drama.
& every day i head for the crusty sandwich shop where
the man in the green shirt & droopy grey moustache
makes me ham & cheese on italian, tells jokes about the mayor,
i grab a bag of chips & a coke & head back out on the street
with its smoke & exhaust & demented lost denizens of wonder
searching every lost corner for all things that demand this love
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city wind blows...
forlorn immigrant man...
i search for lost angels...
black smoke rushing...
pain avenue
mark s kuhar's fiction & poetry have appeared in whiskey island, centerlight, the american srbobran, ohio on-line, big bridge and sidereality; and will soon appear in 3 a.m. magazine and the anthology "an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind: poets on 9/11" (regent
press). he has read his work on WCPN radio, and hosts the deep cleveland poetry hour, held monthly at borders in strongsville. he is also the editor of deep cleveland junkmail oracle, a literary e-zine dedicated to the spirit of legendary cleveland outlaw poet & underground publisher d.a levy.
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