Steve Goldberg sent me several poems, several months late, for an anthology i never made. (turned into a serial, really). it was to be called Crater Cleveland Erie: a Cleve. on Cleve. produxion, named after the NBA court sized crater which lived for a time in our Public Square, and formatted after an old La Charity. Goldberg's poem Nothing Else I Can Do (for Terry Provost) was finally printed by Green Panda Press as vol. iv of Cleve. on Cleve. series. i mispelled his name on the title page. sent about 80 of these blundered gate-fold broads into the wider world outside my smokehouse. i have not yet printed a corrected version, as i promised him. but i sure do think about doing so! tonite i began a true attempt at the next compile.
in my searches i found this Goldberg ditty, mentioning me!

Commuting Musing

Refreshed after a rare full night’s rest
no boozing, no porn, no project
to sap the strength needed to battle the mundane.

Settled to Bree poems, set so beautifully
listening to the singing in my head
word and letterplay frolicking thru my eye
the tones chasing the worry of not understanding away
It didn’t matter and sleep slid silkily in.

Awoke thinking of Sparta
How that happens is a delightful mystery
that has me giggling in the shower
and while I make my lunch sandwich.

It carries me as I drive against
the heavy traffic and the two headed
red coin flipping in my mind.
The promise of love and the agony of hate
is left spinning

Then I’m punched in the nose by a skunk’s final volley
in his last stand against a careening car,
the winner oblivious to his victory
and the rest of us
just collateral damage.

SBG 5-17-007



when someone writes on you, it is not immediately clear what lies in them words. it is like looking at yourself on acid in a mirror, alone. when i was 18 i dropped some, and looked, and there was a rather feminine, blue dinosaur blushing back.
this Goldberg (aka Golberg) is a poet--heck, a staple in this his and my city known for poets. i appreciate his forthcomingedness, and candor. you can get his juices flowing with your own damn poems by attending Thursday night readings at the Lit Cafe in Tremont. he is like ta be flowing on grey city sunshine, or beer, depending.