to d.a.levy
by jonathan moore

   levy was right   as th death boat
   swallowed him            -only
   selves                    gesticulating
   like a long lousy marriage in cleveland,  europe
   always   the same
   keeps coming.   & the younger generation has to
   eat it   (sex   despite the terrifying
   commercials, is wet, does make
   everybody nervous) & know that it waits
   the way a rainy day waits
   inside a motorcycle.  or DEATH
   is faster. like what if one day there
   was no more to say finished kaput
   THE WHOLE GESHEFT yr note   & then
   gone.  or one day it just gets you
   with an unwrapped tamale in your hand:
   fear of cancer in dimestores
   winos, laundromats, reflections
   in puddles, pictures of yr parents
   from the twenties in that
   black&white loneliness,
   the shoeboxes in the closet
   in yr parents room
   that scared you, dark
   dresses in square plastic shrouds,
   shoes & shoehorns shoeboxes pops medals
   pictures of   napoli  WWII  but the SHOES
	                                      of jews
   piled in darkness
   the indians
	        stacked in th snow.

   what if he had stayed out of the  closet
   where the guns pointed back the
   mouth with teeth  that ate him   th key word is fear
        	                      the key word is
   cops as they
   pass up rowdy white jocks to bust niggers
   down the street in boston brooklyn   miami
   bust caps at fifteen year olds
   black head   comin in the windows dream
   comin in with long shining truncheons
   the tac squad leather penis to really
   let you have it   what then   the
   key word is loneliness   names
   written under overpasses on interstates
   the public secret the ICC doesnt know about
   & cant understand
   the silent
   scribbled din.

   all the vagabonds
   are thin & dazed   or
   far   & forgetful
   masturbating into
   blue bandanas in gas station
   toilets          & poetry
   isn't ENOUGH   to kill the spiders on the wall
   & now theyre hiding the cities from us
   with stores
   that sell parrots & quiche & ugly
   expensive clothing
   to welldressed people     with hideous
   expressions on their faces
   picking apart the braincells til theres no more ganglia
   left in any one place
   than a flatworm
   or a slug.    poetry is an ILLUSION some
   people have time for invest in hold in their mouth but mostly
   sensitive souls clustering huddling together     its nice
   but its boring & its thin protection
   at 3 am             & the muse
   i dreamed her
   up one winter      in a bar	
   fifteen minutes
   to bar time.

				originally appeared in: 
                                A Protecting Music
				Ghost Pony Press,
				copyright 1981 jonathan moore





































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This is a cooperative presentation of
Ghost Pony Press, Kaldron On-Line and
Light and Dust Mobile Anthology of Poetry