Poem - An Incomplete Genealogy of Cleveland Poetics

An Incomplete Genealogy of Cleveland Poetics  Salinger and the nineties I first heard Mike Salinger readat the Red Star Caféabout a dozen years ago.Truth be told,he didn’t even read his own piece;his dog wrote it for him,a clever haikuabout a government employee.as it stands, Mikes dogwrites better than my cat. In 1999 I’d frequentThe bookstore on West 25th,Mike O’Brian, now there wasa real book seller.When I went back seven and a half years later,Nancy had been let go.The store was closingbut the same poets remained. I only got to hear Daniel Thompson once before he passed away. Back in the nineties I becameobsessed with the poetry of Chris Franke.I kept trying to draw up acrostics once,because that’s all he read at the bookstore.It didn’t cross my mind(I was a young punk, after all)that he probably had500,000 writings by that point,more perhaps. I don’t think he was readingso much as liquidating. I went to high school with a girlnamed Sara Holbrook,but looking back I don’t thinkthere was any relation. On Thursday nightsBeantown Coffee House in Lakewoodwas where you wanted to be,met Mary Player there.You’d never know it from the outsideon Madison Avenue,but there was a vibe there,man, it was as bohemian as you got. My heart droppedthe day I saw Amy Sparks writing movie reviewsfor the Free Times,It didn’t dawn on methat “starving artist” isn’t nearly as cool as it sounds. I sat in the Mardi Gras loungefor twenty minutes one Saturday,before I realized I was the only person there…seriously, they left the door unlocked.I wonder if there are readings there still… The most shocking poet I ever saw?Russ Vidrick.His quiet poignancy is unmatched. New Phoenix / Old Phoenix  Truth be toldI’m not sure I like reading at the Phoenix.Too many kidsand bad poetry.I can read my own stuff at homeif I wanted that. Now, I mean the Phoenix in Lakewood;the old Phoenix, on west 25th (Pearl, really)in its day was impressive.I think there’s a Laundromat there. An Incomplete Genealogy of Cleveland Poetics Steadily there’s beensome younger poets coming up,but I wonder about the older ones. I wonder who was here before Thompson,before Franke and Salinger.I’m not interested in the “grand old masters”as Longfellow put it,and nobody on a national scalelike Kerouac or Frost.Plath and Sexton don’t get free passes either, sorry.no, I want to know about my hometown,who wrote poetry a hundred years ago here? Did men and women readin bars,in basements,In the backs of churches?Who was toe tapping in the fifties?During the depression? The Music Scene I usually start reading againevery five years or so,and keep out of the spotlight.I save embarrassment and deep discussion that way.Sometimes, I prefer to readat musician’s open mikes.I mainly do this,cause hey,I’m a dick that way…and I like the accompaniment.In all seriousness,musicians give a much warmer reception,and like all poetsI’m an attention whore. Afterward I ran into David Snodgrassat Target two or so years back;he was pushing a cartwith a daughter I’d never met,his wife looking at clothes,much like mine was. In between the small talkand idle chit chatI asked how his poetry was coming along,since I never saw him read anymore.“Oh, I gave that up”he said. “No! No!” I protested,not seeing the ironyin giving it up, myself.“No, I grew my beard out,and started enunciating better,so I could be like you.” When our wives came backwe slowly shuffled our carts down the aislein opposite directions.