russell salamon
russell salamon is a former roommate of d.a. levy's. he lives
and writes in los angeles. he has published many chapbooks and
one "official" book: "descent into cleveland,"
which is required reading for d.a. levy fans, as well as anyone
who appreciates the poetry of wistful remembering, understands
the beauty of eternal friendship, and/or has a brave affinity
for 1960s-era industrial cleveland. thesalamons@earthlink.net
Festival in Sid
Sometimes one must rise.
Sometime two must rise.
Sometimes the whole village
must rise to divinity. Art is a voyage.
Church art believes in transport,
believes there is a soul to be transported. Believes in divinity.
My father is a poet.
One of the two best in Rusinian,
a Slavic language. His singing
voice is famous. He is a priest.
He believes in transport.
The church is full. Fragrant
smoke drifts above the bodies.
Six priests in golden robes are
singing hymns in Old Slavonic
from the year eight hundred.
The long arch of the service
reaches a moment where
time stops, the scents are
resonant. Everyone has contacted
a sacred silence under the music.
My father's voice lifts us all
and we know we are god.
But we say nothing. We are so moved.
And no one ever mentions it
again.
Hot Moods
Now we are god, but immediately
the property owners claim our eyes:
You must see only through our need---
we need you dead.
We open our eyes with blossoming trees,
water from far hills, meadows teeming with
frogs and egrets; we open ourselves with
fried bread and flute songs, but our
terrified friends scream at the sight of
so much god: they know we are retribution;
they have much retribution to account for.
We do not care---we set about building
a city, we help those in need of eyes
so we plant them in books and in
windows, we plant them in flowing
streams and in the sea. Every place
becomes a freedom place.
Our viewpoints are free. I am a gazelle,
a wolf, an ocelot. And you slide through
the sea as an otter. We meet for dinner.
You flutter breeze roads near your face.
We sip water and disappear into light spheres
so vast we hold the end and the beginning.
Eyes fill with starlight; we wash in their hot moods.
Crossfire of Hunger
You keep bringing some form of music
in your eyes and lips that sweeten
morning coffee and dense time
thick as mountains rolls
down canyons into streams.
The city still burning with history
does not give up its thieves and
bodies into the crossfire of hunger.
No need to long for you.
You are in the tones of air
drifting on the horizon.
Sunset unfolds your presences,
by wind by sea colors.
The trees shape your movements
and thick fog near the sea
breathes old trees which are
earlier wishes to be.
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