| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
| POETRYrepairs v08.01:010 |
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| JANUARY 10 moving toward 50 degrees walking to the metro. Other years the false spring lured, a lover too charismatic, even knowing his past than the ones with good records. I was the girl who wanted only Daimlers and Aristocrats, no Chevy, no Toyota copyright LYN LIFSHIN |
| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
| poetryREpairs v08.01:010 |
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| RAGE EVEN AFTER BALLET the stink of his words, I can't pirouette: they're stones, not blood in my body. Rage clots, a stone baby I've been pregnant with 13 years. The bigger it grows, the more it tears up, suffocates until nothing normal people do is possible copyright LYN LIFSHIN |
| "Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!" |
| poetryrePAIRS v08.01:010 |
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| 16TH BIRTHDAY PARTY DRESS locked over, for months under boxes under boxes. Someone was search and the cotton, there the deep rose of her name, my name. So I can wear what I wore, waist cinched. So I have that silhouette. Forget the rest, the texture of dreams, how it was my best color. How too little now has color. Rose, the deepest. How I splotched mascara on it, the midnight in me, the darkest heart 2. How it was the near, nearly antique, color of flanged beads. Or really, the raspberry held in it's the pocket of a young girl on a death camp marsh. "Flanged," I'd like the word better with a soft "g" sound the way I wanted to change my name to Gitana, gypsy but had to have the "g" sound like "j," soft, a quilt. The dress was lost when my mother left the last time. When I step into its rose, gone and back but is the same, how it held me seems as familiar as some hands could be 2. getting the poison out someone was looking for a way to do it, someone in my clothes. She looked like me and her cat was as jumpy. She tried to watch the geese, the goslings. Instead, dread was like a shawl she pulled tighter. He could just fall asleep, heard nothing. She is drowning in paper, in clothes stuffed so tight in the closet what's there is lost. That's the way it seems about too much, the stacks of paintings, the clothes as mask. She is the blues dancing with blackness, indelible, starless 2. like earth's plates sliding over each other, something that never was or was camouflaged is for a heartbeat, the world. The metro lull shakes chips loose, a phrase. If there's a meaning, you don't know, can you kiss it? Can you dance with it in a whirl skirt of ashes? Will it make a poem, a breath, a heartbeat? copyright LYN LIFSHIN |
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