Mark Kuhar (a.k.a. markk) is an established writer, poet, editor and the self-appointed duke of deepcleveland.com. His poems have appeared in: Whiskey Island, Centerlight, The American Srbobran, Ohio On-line, Big Bridge, Sidereality, The City, American Motor Thought, and countless other literary 'zines as well as the anthologies Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind: Poets on 9/11 by Regent Press & ornamental iron by Green Panda Press. Mark's hit the airwaves on WCPN radio with his poems and hosts the deep cleveland poetry hour, an unconconventional monthly spoken-word event at Borders in Strongsville. He can be found reciting slices of radical freeverse at The Powerhouse Poetry Jam in the Flats and the Akron Art Museum. Most days he keeps busy as editor of deep cleveland junkmail oracle http://www.deepcleveland.com a literary e-zine dedicated to the spirit of Cleveland outlaw poet, artist & underground publisher D.A. Levy. This week Mark is hosting An Evening in Deepcleveland at Mac's Backs in Coventry, featuring the wayward union of deepcleveland poets. You'll want to get in on this diverse group's tapestry of voices; read about its event in this edition of Cool Cleveland. Poetic morphosis guaranteed.

"citytalk"

when the city talks to itself
it whispers barely audible
curses, mumbled prayers,
words that sound foreign,
eastern ethnic african
dialects, the city talks to
itself & sings softly, a voice
- song of sad beautiful
things, of artwork slashing
across lake erie horizons,
a hypnotized reverence
for all things wooden, careless,
calm, restricted, uplifting,
the city talks to itself &
answers back in a yell
of clinging uncertainty,
a groundswell of words
that clip the tip of
the terminal tower,
swirl around the jake
like a drain, citytalk that
surfaces in waterbubbles,
bursting, cleveland,
just to say you're home.

"cleveland opus maximus (part 1)"

hop in, unreal city,
i'll drive you deep
into the ghost of
yr palm-reader
history, like a half-
cocked cabbie i'm
a memory reaper,
yr golden orphan,
the keeper of the
skeleton keys

i knew you in 1968,
a cleveland of foul manners
hiding behind
a window at 34th
& superior, at night
sleeping in that upper
room the horns & hollers
from the street were
chants & insults,
fabulous illusions

when you killed d.a. levy
you laughed about it,
the only one who made
you the acrylic of his
bone-brush art, it's a sin
from which you have
never recovered

when hough burned
it wasn't your problem.
was it? just the dregs of the
inner city & you turned
a blind eye to that pain
& refused to repent

as airplanes crisscrossed
the labor day sky you revelled
in a victory that relied on
cheap pyrotechnics &
objects you could not
touch in a distance of blue

i walked those streets
around e. 40th & payne
(p-a-i-n) waiting for deliverance,
when they pimped up that
alley looking for me, there
was no one there to see
my reflection in broken glass

cleveland i saw you
cheering, in municipal
stadium moments, the
caliber of yr energy
emerging from section 35
like cannon fire, the catalyst
of a personal doom
that still haunts you

i saw you
implode from the
dirty heart of yr
ore-piled chemical
riverbanks, in
the old fagens,
when it was an irish bar with a fireplace
& cheap shots &
alec & mary sang songs
about drunk sailors
in a lilting wail,
before someone turned it
into a tinsel dance club

when you became
the national punchline
& yr self esteem vanished
you still held onto bob feller
& otto graham & the steel mills
of the 1940s, ford & chevy
the holy car makers driving
yr chromebumper sweat,
refusing to change
with the times

& that neighborhood
around w. 130th & bennington
i knew it well, heading
up the sidewalk to santa's
market i saw a man sleeping
in a doorway, wondered why
the left hand of cleveland
had layed him low, the money
in my pocket like a treasure-
chest proclamation, hiding,
out of sight, in shame

one night I watched trucks
drive over the hope memorial
bridge from a vantage
point reserved for drunks
& poets, madmen &
angels, & just like
that, everything was
perfect, waiting, waiting
in the wings, for someone
like you.

 (:divend:)