
Featured poet: Neeli Cherkovski
CITY IN FOG
For Richard Irwin
this poor boy lived
and died in an iron lung, his body
draped over the window
on Filbert Street, a punk
his body captive, his eyes
brought down to this white mantle
of snow in a ward for men
dying in a year of plague, a punk poet
and keen eyed observer of
the quick-moving, silent skies
voted into office long ago, long
before we wept alone on the
steps of city hall and in the nave
of the library, fondling card catalogue
paper oblong silken threads
we held hands and giggled like
school boys, up and down
cold-bound hills, past Queen Anne
and Queen Victoria
I am a poor boy unloved
in the city, Irwin hangs on to life
at the beautiful medical center
where music and eucalyptus caress
before a multitude of anonymous
birds, it has come to one last night
of clinging, breathing, believing
before the bellicose cosmology
lays a hand and takes
the suffering boy to metaphysical
drawing rooms where herds of elephants
follow an ancient trail
through the neighborhoods, over sleek
ridges disturbed only by clamoring
cable car bells on loud
tracks , his eyes are shut, he has
no further light, we stand over
his body, I thought of us
trying to be warm -- watching Godzilla
on my television screen
then we’d awaken to the buzz
on Grant Avenue’s quaint bohemia
shrouded in the weather, stretching to China’s
Great Wall and bolting to sunlight
untroubled
CARRY THE SUN
carry the sun
along the shoreline
until cliffs
offers no room
and the surf rises
no other way
but this one
no way out
do not try to avoid
the dark woods, they are
splendid
cross an angry
crucible
and circle the cenotaph
the sun turns
into a block of ice
and men
fall into disrepair
the sun performs
rope tricks
for a crowd of carnival
folks and for handy dandy
diners at the local cafe
the sun is a
black widow spider
on the windowsill
looking out
at a fog bank
people wade
in the light
splashing their
desire
down to the tomb
of the tides
THE FULL MOON
the full moon spits
and shines, it rings your doorbell
and hides, the moon amuses
a black panther as it shines
for the darker regions of the woods
it bolts over outcroppings of sedimentary
rock, the full moon
has haunted Chinese poets
who drink fine wine
from wooden bowls
while it is raining
the moon hides in Shakespeare’s
plays, it heightens his verse
and has a role in modern music
I believe there are places on the moon
where musicians have played the lute
and beat the drums
I am amused by the classic illumination
of the full moon
and how it covers a copy of the “New York Times”
through the Venetian blinds
a low narrow light
that has no true beginning or end
PRIMITIVE NOTEBOOK
this morning voices come from the grass
funny and odd voices
all those boys who played table shuffleboard
in JOE’S BAR on the north side of town
those boys tumble down five decades
they are sweet as I remember
kind and dumb
some feasted on brandy
others drank only beer
**
Joe wipes the bar
he complains
no money no love no dreams
no good fortune at hand
“My brother made a million bucks
writing bad novels”
the puck slides
song are wrenched
out of the wetlands far
to the south, down by the air base
soon to shut
**
there were little men
on a little world of wood and ice
who built toboggans for the winter
and straw hats in summer
and lean tents al year long
**
the revolutionary
fled into the mountains
hoping to re-connect
with the scent of pine
and futile wind
coming from the sky
he was eventually
cornered and butchered
by a million machetes
then placed on display
like a dead Christ
**
you left the animal
alone in the woods
so you might open
a gallery of art
in the darker forest
this is why
you deal in evil
and will never believe
in anything better
than a distant wailing
from the mirror
**
the aged leader
fell into his belief
as a man might fall
into a deep hole
on the slope
of a volcano
about to explode
**
we are aware
of meadows and
pristine mountain lakes
drawn over the cave walls
in our bodies
we drive there
in the late afternoon
as the sun
quietly evacuates
and we feel free enough
to go even deeper
past the arcades
and words
**
do come
and be one
sound
in the current
do come
and sound
one song
for the duration
**
packs of men
in a dying city, dead
librarians stacked
on the steps
at 42nd Street
stone and
bone
**
he slept
smiling as if
hope had taken hold
and joy lay
in the fork of the road
but he never knew
that smile
**
from the other soldiers
taunts and jeers
until someone waved a flag
and the tarmac
filled up with bodies
wrapped in wood
**
in the Kaaba a ticking bomb
**
childhood cries
in the deep grass, old men
whittle wood, ancient spirits
are blown away
like paper cranes
HISTORICAL NOTES
in the cellars of the museum
are medieval pediments, you
may step down carefully
in the Verona restaurant
we find secret tunnels leading
to the remains of the Roman town
in the catacombs we feel
terrible, and find it difficult to wait
for the tour to end
in the great cathedral
we see angels in the nave
strumming on golden harps
in the mountains we find
sequoia trees as old as are
the Roman ruins
everywhere deadly forces
are at work, no one goes inside
without finally stepping
into the jaw of a monster
forward or backward
the coal burns slowly,
fossil fuels eat the sky
the old woman hands out
bread and pours wine, the
old man takes your money
cold wind rattles your spine
men are dizzy with the speed of time