CLEVELAND
Tears in the eyes
of the lake Erie have frozen,
hidden in its eye sockets
the thirst of the world's fresh waters.
Its waves grey
like Gandhi's feeble staff
as he raises his neck
in rusting belt's cold furnaces,
rolling mills and withered gardens.
The vacant eyes
of the church staring into
the glassy surface of the skyscrapers
that once wrote the billionaire future of the city of steel.
The cartoon of the corrupt politician
eating with his horse's bushy tail
and the freedom stamp silently tilted sideways,
ready to move over to some obscure edge of history.
The town where Anne Sexton
came to declare her resolution to 'do' it.
I met a deer,
probably her current incarnation,
and in the cemetery of the famous dead
a raccoon that came hunting for crumbs,
in fashion of the town itself making a living
out of service to the aged and the ailing
Like the pear blossoms
the deer had dared to come out
to greet the spring from Hart Crane's bridge
where he once waited to kiss his cruel mistress, the Sea.
Yuyutsu RD Sharma
CLEVELAND NOCTURNE
It’s nice to see you again, Albert Ayler –
martyred Holy Ghost – coloring outside the lines
hovering along the edge of this city of light and magic,
this city of: Sure, why not great notion?
Why don’t you untie your shoes and stay awhile?
You might find that you like it here.
Things have changed a bit.
The river doesn’t catch fire nearly so often anymore,
and when you are ready to check out again,
and if you elect to repeat the drowning routine,
then Lake Erie is a whole lot more enticing
than that damn East river in New York City.
So tell me Albert, how much spending money
do you think that g*d carries around?
How much cash do you think that he’s
got in his wallet right now?
Go ahead, venture a guess.
A couple of twenties, perhaps? A ten spot or three?
Maybe those four crisp fifty dollar bills
from last Thursday’s 7th race at Thistledown,
when the lord put $5 on the 3/6 exacta, and it hit.
If there’s one thing that we know about g*d,
he sure knows how to handicap the ponies.
Yes I see you there, Albert Ayler –
seated alone at a back table at Hot Sauce Williams BBQ –
the one on Carnegie Ave.
How’s the pork shoulder tonight?
Are you having the greens with bacon, or the cole slaw?
The mac and cheese, perhaps?
Will you finish with the sweet potato pie or the banana pudding?
The world is watching, and it has a need to know
how you are and just what you are thinking.
You are the rip in the fabric, Albert,
as well as the staple that holds everything together.
If Coltrane’s love
is a supreme love,
then your way
is the way.
With a blast that burns
the soles of the feet,
in a register that splits
the beat of the heart.
One day,
everything will be,
as it should be.
David Smith
