May 19-25, 2003: Kenneth Clark and Mike Levy

week of May 19-25, 2003

Kenneth Clark and Mike Levy

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Kenneth Clark

Bio (auto)

Kenneth Clark resides in Athens, Georgia after growing up in New Orleans, Louisiana A Texan by birth and a lifelong traveller, he finds solace in movement and writes poems that are intentionally rift with contradictions, subtle disagreements, and elements in opposition his poems have appeared here in PoetrySuperHighway and several now-defunct online ‘zines, in addition to limited print success he is currently finishing his first novel.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Kenneth Clark and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author


in between alarm and cold off the window
that crawls under blankets, underwear;

as our coffee machine drips, or
the intermitttent hum of television
news cries Wake Up! Wake Up!

daytime’s for those whose tongue know only talk–

but five more minutes; relax–
& instead of good morning, fall
back to sleep before we return

to daytime that’s lesser by design

why i like panties

peripherally, i spy at clothing stores
the maze of low-cut bikini unmentionables
while women shop for their everyday
garments with utilitarian efficiency

this weekend i’ll join them and the tease
of mannequins like a mad art collector
set free in the louvre

Maysan mantra

we wait
by the phone and mailbox
while late march

chases us inside
to fireplace comfort;
when did ouroboros
undo herself

to strike here
from around the world?
these Appalachians

mimic Al Muthanna–
daytime’s quiescence
& noised cold of night

on the news, blood rhetoric
slips between commercials
and forced laughter–
this is the future

we are saving
for you, daughter–
to replace Nagasaki
& Dresden

with Al Amarah, 
Al Kut, Al Hillah.

Mike Levy

Bio (auto)

Mike Levy lives in Brooklyn, New York and has a very common name This Mike Levy does not know the Point of Life; he is neither a Pilates instructor nor Tony Blair’s special envoy to the Middle East, nor was he ever a member of The Sneetches All of the Dr and Professor Mike Levys are other people This Mike Levy, formerly a reporter for The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles, is currently enjoying New York City springtime and looking for a job.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Mike Levy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author

Six O’clock in the Afternoon

In August, when it is hottest On a hill, covered in grass like a mutant lettuce, crisp, painted-green, behind the museum, behind the museum’s amphitheater, surrounded by tar pits Children keep walking by, off to what? With their parents and their little brothers, with their reading the signs and pointing at the tar pits
We had neglected to bring any sort of stuffed animal, and then the subject of stuffed animals came up; we began to regret it There’s a slope to a hill, grassy or no, makes lying on one’s side hard
Tar pits We didn’t come to see them What did we come to see? We saw naked men sweating bronze rust in the garden, we saw maritime Salem millionaires’ chairs, and their lamps, we saw ancient Mexican bowls and claymen and claywomen We saw three buildings that Rem Koolhaas wants to make
It was air conditioned, but the elevators didn’t work We missed China, Korea, Japan, and the history of fashion We didn’t come to see them either, anyway
We took off our shoes and somehow she got into the mirror hallway installation before me, and ducked through Guards checked our tickets as we walked in the gallery Everyone seemed to resent each other at the doorway But no one else was inside
We read the signs and pointed at the paintings We talked about the news I talked softly, but the reception was good; I called a friend to talk about dinner tomorrow We walked around the giant room of giant paintings from a long time ago as if we owned the place We talked about things that happened a long time ago, things I had pictures of We talked about national public radio
Now we know how a responsible public institution can water a hill so green The sweat of a thousand pairs of desperate lovers, holding hands and smiling into the public sun Don’t give me it’s too salty It’s not very salty We talk about men with beards We talk about Kermit the Frog
Even on a grassy hill in August six o’clock in the afternoon doesn’t last; on a hill of buckled concrete next to the bus stop stars come out like branches, prick my arm and under my nose We stop at the stuffed animal store to get away from them and hug nearly everything inside We linger in the digital recorded voice talking creatures section We exit the revolving door and exit We navigate the sidewalks side by side
Quieter than streetlights the traffic on Beverly Boulevard honks.

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