| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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![]() BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright M. DEITER KEYISHIANM. DEITER KEYISHIAN Moses I try to tell him I stutter, looking for the word. How do you answer a bush? I've never been ready, wasn't packed for a long march when I took them away to a new kind of exile. I burned on a mountain, my back blistered and raw, making a book, making abstract words of things. They wanted a solid, golden calf they could touch and a dance, not anger and a city of words. Of course, magic's necessary. rod into snake. I studied that and the movement of water. The book and an ark for a house were all I who died in the desert had. REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; resort, frequent or habitual going; making one's way; to arrive; to dwell; to heal, to cure, to recover; to renew; (AND!) to fix to original condition. Oxford English Dictionary Reverend Terrebonne Walker by John Horvath Jr PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors
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| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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| BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | CHRIS SEMANSKY She Is Watching Me Fall She is watching me fall. She's not waiting, she's watching. Her eyes narrow, then expand. She is so many clouds, so much fabric. She examines the creases around my eyes, calculating the time it will take. She knows that a feather and an anvil both fall at the same rate. That is not what she is thinking. Thinking. She is watching me fall, as if I were a flower or a strange color or an inexplicable row of lilacs by the roadside. Or a piece of installation art. She does not want to get out of the way. She is not in the way. I am not falling. My body is rooted to the ground. These are my feet, my legs, this is my stomach. My heart sits on a stick in the front yard where a crowd jabs at it with their fingers. They cheer at the color, the gristle, the veins that dangle like stupid noodles dripping onto the lawn, the slick sack of blood that hacks and coughs its way through the affair. It is not an affair this affair. She is watching me fall, she is falling beside me. There is no gravity like ours. No one is watching. The wind doesn't help. The world rises and falls along with us. She doesn't call it falling, this falling. What does one fall from? she asks. She sees no floor, just so many false bottoms, an infinite regress of trap doors, a finger beckoning. It is her finger. She is a she, with the constant lipstick and cherry-red toenails, the usual ingredients. She is all as ifandI am.She hates poetry. She is at the corner of the bed wearing her Audrey Hepburn hat watching me fall, telling me she's having a good time, really, all things considered. She is considering all things. She is in no hurry. She wants to do everything at once. If nothing else, she wants to wear the right clothes. She wants to know when it will end, this falling that she loves to watch. She is edging towards me, pushing me, now beating me, telling me to make her stop pushing. She can't stop it. She is falling, and I am watching her fall. She is so beautiful. --- copyright CHRIS SEMANSKY. "She Is Watching Me Fall" was previously published on01.01:012 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors
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