Tin Lustre Mobile

• Editor: Andrew Lundwall

Thursday, January 16, 2003

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• Cover Art: Biped Vertigo by Andrew Lundwall

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iSSUe #2

Featured Poet:

{Mark S. Kuhar}

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mark s kuhar is an ohio-based
writer & poet. his fiction &
poetry have appeared in whiskey
island, centerlight, the american
srbobran, ohio on-line, big bridge,
sidereality and the city, as well
as in the anthologies an eye for
an eye makes the whole world blind:
poets on 9/11 (regent
press) and the long
march of cleveland (green
panda press).


he has read his work on national
public radio & does spoken word
performance in his hometown of
cleveland. his nonfiction has
appeared in a wide variety of
local & national business, consumer
& on-line publications.


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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throwing water on the witch  

 
it's time to throw 
water on the witch 
that which impales me 
on its furious energy spikes, 
its long frightened horns 
in a landfill sky 

 
when i was a child 
i spoke as a child 
i feared as a child 
those things climbing up 
midnight walls, the noises 
unexplained that cough from 
a dark underground 
the roots of a house foundation 
that might fly far away 

 
there are fears encased  
in words unspoken, fears  
that tornado about in hammers  
& wolf whistles, fears that  
are the fabric of closed eyes,  
a grimace, a slow reach into  
the depths of a long black jacket 

 
it's time to throw water on the witch 
her tinsel face disappearing 
her eyes rolled back into a dark skull  
her last screams vanishing in green steam a formaldahyde smell that hangs  
like carbon monoxide, invisible, 
in the ether 

 
on the streets of the city the cables are running  

 
in novacaine networks blue tunnels of venom  

 
through turnstiles of metal the ghost of tomorrow  

 
on varicose creatures the opal of limelight  

 
the grasp of a trigger, a moonlight misnomer  

 
twirling enigmas 
long lines scored in brackish sand 

 
it's time to throw water on the witch 
& save the scarecrow 
in my strange oz, a wizard waiting 
 

 

 
byzantine chantmaker  
of the towering ages  

 
suspended over midamerica 
in vast cloudcover airstorms 
above long furrows of dirt 
sprinkled with the cream of ages 
it occurs to me that what i touch 
is mere frozen vibration, the lost 
byproduct of a dream congealed  

 
& i am a dreamer 
& this is the dreaming 
& that is a dream 
& dreaming can't manifest 
without the dreamer 
without this dream 

 
a harrowing thunder of hours 
the hot things that become me, 
the visions that will transpire, 
an ogre of restlessness 
crowns a dire anxiety,  

 
a breathing that comes 
in great heaving huffs 
this ocean of breath, the possession 
of apt breath the acres of breathing 
possible crosscurrents jacked up 
like a cracked axle, greased breath, 
inflation breath, explode breath 

 
across snowjangled forest floors 
a three-legged dog ambles 
the snap of frozen twigs 
the thick rustle of fallen 
leaves crusted with ice 
the territory of the lost bird 
this map of conciousness 
this yellow fog of time  

 
my thoughts predate me 
my memories fall into place 
my paths grow arms that 
point multiple directions 
like a thousand-armed shiva 

 
in winter the grass is green 
beneath white cotton cloth 
snow remnants that arise through 
the surface in a fertile growth 
over these things i pass like 
a byzantine chantmaker of the 
towering ages, walking streets 
where the walking empowers 
the streets, the triangle halo 
of my ancient tonal connection 
the oasis of my orbit around you  

 
& you walking upon the water 
where the walking empowers 
the water, your message is a 
swarm of love, your tactics 
a gift of the somersault cosmos 

 
three trees sprouting from the 
earth like pitchfork tines, 
either turn the hay in harvest 
fields, or plunge it in deep  

 
from where you're standing 
look out into rays of radioactivity 
through transcendental oceans, 
crevices, tall mood arrowheads 
righteous reactions, revelations, 
the unison of inspired revolutions,  

 
this turning that turns for me  
& me only the enfant terrible  
of my true regard  
 

 

 
time like a mongrel  

 
time like a mongrel barking 
its ugly yap through a chain- 
link fence, razor teeth 
sword-edge fierce, pitbull 
with the carcass of lost hours 

 
i live in this containment 
this brick-walled fort 
of mornings in automobiles, 
computers that radiate 
a sucking energy, the voices 
that inquire about things 
that have no literal meaning  

 
a melange of idiot wanderings 
the ghosts of pirate souls 
intent on death & destruction 
in the name of a pile of gold  

 
thatbarkthatbarkthatbarkthatbark 

 
i recall a joshua tree i met in 
the california desert, sun dried, 
a thousand years old connected 
to the earth & the sky by roots, 
the welcome of ultraviolet, he 
whispered, the nights i open a 
yellow dreaming, i become you 
in spindles & creature branches 

 
i saw him alone on the side of the 
bridge, a rock in his hand, his 
solitary sillouette knifecut 
artpiece, intentions not clear 
or an expression of vagueness 
or a story of disconnectedness 
not fit to be told to the sky 

 
but it's the barking i hear, the echo 
of the last bark, the anticipation 
of the next bark, a reason 
for the progression of barks 
that meld together into one 
long insidious miserable bark  

 
a bark that means hunger unfed 
bouncing off the face of the moon, 
werewolf clear, incomprehensible, 
as long as these footprint trails 
 

 

 
baby saint saxophone  

 
my baby a saxophone. 
the ramma-jamma 
button push jazz ax 
toodle-loo, all gleamy 
in candlelight & dim 
barroom matchflame 
like a cat cathedral 
she sit on the stage 
all holy-rolled, cold 
kick her hair back, 
she looka looka at 
me with that heroin 
white edge hover, 
fleeting glimpse 
that buckles back 
to the inside, the 
noise go ruckus all 
around in a flick fever 
like the voice of prophets 
my baby saint saxophone 
she wait at my table, 
she wait for the breath 
of christ, create the word 
the word that is this 
message to the world  
 

 

 
whispeRcanyouhear me?  

 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me?  

 
words like a thick sap 
drained from a maple tree 
honeycomb thick, sliced 
like pork chops, broken 
open in chunks, a pile 
of concrete and rebar 
gnashing teeth. 

 
when i yell 
into the bowels of 
a canyon the echo 
that returns comes 
back with bark on 
its old fat trunk, 
the rattlesnake whippet 
of fang inflections, 
no longer my voice, 
the creation of 
terrestrial environment  

 
there is a constant 
mosh pit of words 
that play in the 
background of my 
heroic thoughts, 
a backdrop of 
syllables that 
don't congeal, 
fluctuate in a 
maraca rhythm 
shimmy that 
sprinkles on 
my tongue like 
salt & pepper  

 
one day i sat 
& stared at a 
billboard for 
hours, the words 
made no literal 
sense to me, the 
image did not 
match up with 
the words, the 
torn corner of 
the sticky paper 
a harbinger of 
things to come  

 
oh these neanderthal 
implements we use 
to make hay, to 
amp the pulse 
of our ticking hours, 
why are we so ill- 
equipped to make 
the jump from 
thoughts to words 

 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me? 
whispeRcanyouhear me?  

 
this flagon of twisted 
mist that i spill, vapors 
for me & you 
 

 

 
fugue in limited twilight  

 
i have no recollection 
of the sun as it falls, 
of the moon as it rises, 
of that purgatory of 
time passage between 
the death of the day 
& the birth of the night  

 
i am the pan of yr particulars 
a hercules in vibrating 
particles, the cosmic zeus 
of yr mountain dramas, 
apollo at ground zero 
with a red guitar 

 
when you approach this 
city it is the bridges that 
greet you, the transition 
between high blocks 
of land mass, over rivers 
that run in circles like 
the canals of atlantis  

 
you must see that this 
is our cranial mythology, 
the ghost of our peace 
& rememberance.  

 
i am here to remind you 
of yr immortality. this is 
a job you have forsaken, 
but do not fear the tempest 
of yr fine fettle, the 
wasted & rocky docks 
of yr incredulous waiting 
are prepared for the 
cargo of our rapture 

 
when i approach from 
the sea i can detect you 
up on the widow's walk, 
the place of yr long 
misery & lone wonders, 
i am here to pull down 
the walls that surround you, 
to open yr mind to the 
flaming & opulent 
beauty of yr forgotten 
inspirations  

 
this is the kind of 
thing that carries 
me along against 
my wishes, the fear 
of water & brambles, 
of comets like 
baseballs & foghorns 
that wail on the 
heaving crutch 
of the night 

 
take this, here, 
it's from me, 
i am trying 
to strip myself 
of everything but 
the essentials: 
words that have 
crusted jewels 
of meaning, 
the things 
unsaid, 
the knowledge 
you possess 
telepathic 
& pure  
 

 

 
vestiges of the  
pomegranate moon  

 
i can be your 
nemesis 
in potent moments, 
no escape from my 
frigidheat, 
the cloak 
of atmospheric 
longing, oh cover 
the shoulders of yr 
predicament 
my little jewel, 
when you come 
to seek the 
floating stone, 
the last vestiges 
of a pomegranate 
moon, a poem 
of granite written 
in the lexicon 
of our merging, 
yr heart beats 
like a war drum, 
you circle like 
a portugese 
man-o-war, 
i'll straddle yr 
contradictions 
& translate 
yr meanderings 
a language we 
speak, red seeds 
that fall out 
one at a time 
(ripe beyond 
imagine) 

TLMzine 3:23 PM - [Link]
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