SUE LITTLETON : Letting Go
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : Driving the Laurels
MARIE KAZALIA : money fucks me up
POETRYREPAIRS v13.01:004
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Letting Go Driving the Laurels money fucks me up  
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SUE LITTLETON
Letting Go
The young woman lies silently in the hospital bed, pale brown rubber tubes spilling from her nostrils, her arms. The oxygen machine burbles and burps like the aspirator in an aquarium, the heart monitor bleeps drowsily. The Mother leans forward toward the limp figure, touching a needle-pinioned hand with gentle fingers. “Breathe, Clara,” she murmurs insistently. “Breathe, darling!” Clara is twenty-three years old, a loving, golden-haired Downs Syndrome child; now she has leukemia. Three years ago the doctors gave Clara three weeks to live. Her desperate mother (Clara is her only child) has approved treatment after treatment, seventeen small hells of chemotherapy, transfusions, bone marrow transplants... Now it is time – is it time? to let Clara go, let her slip away from the tubes, the needles, the painkillers and tranquilizers. The family pleads, “Let her go, let her go!” A hundred years ago white-faced, exhausted mothers would nurse dying children through epidemics of typhoid, measles, scarlet fever, whooping cough, finally surrendering their youngsters to the inevitable with bitter tears and aching hearts. When does a noble effort become an obsession, a power struggle with Death, the child as hostage— Who decides to let go? When does the understanding come that letting go does not mean forgetting?
POETRYREPAIRS 13.01:004
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Letting Go Driving the Laurels money fucks me up  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

ANDRENA ZAWINSKI
Driving the Laurels
...all the bright clouds and clusters, beasts and heroes, glittering singers and isolated thinkers at pasture. --from Gerald Stern¹s Cow Worship Driving the Laurels, I wind the regular route to a week of work before leaving one coast behind for another, this rural America, Pennsylvania greening past Somerset. Driving this road where the deer leapt and fell, legs tucked under, head forest bent, as if to have tried a last time to lift itself up for one more look back. I am driving the mountains laden with words to fill classrooms I inhabit in this string of last days east, in my hands these gifts: Kenyon¹s peonies and Sandburg¹s fog, some of Harjo¹s horses, one tidy wheelbarrow from Williams. Driving the Laurels fast past a store that says Open that never is, a roadside sign peddling gravel and clean fill instead of corn, the detour roping an Elks Hall and Amish draped in black behind bare windows. I drive fast trying to catch some AM news above the static between hills, past the silo a funnel cloud lifted last year then dropped down. I hear in Oklahoma that 43 have been taken by their own fierce winds I drive fast past willows at pond¹s edge, past forsythia in the patches, johnny jumpups nosing through the berm. I work the week in rural America, cut my way through untamed flowers to coax from children a long look at what they hold here: these cows at pasture, their udders fat and heavy with what we need, and spring peepers, the high-pitched chorus they will bring when night rolls down to greet the creek grass.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.01: 004
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato




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Letting Go Driving the Laurels money fucks me up  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

MARIE KAZALIA
money fucks me up
when I have plenty spend too much time shopping for black leather shoes, long black dresses black hats, black jackets CDs, videos, books black silk sheets for my bed eat in different restaurants don't write as much as I'd like don't keep up with editing my stuff or sending it out thinking about buying and when I don't have enough money down to my last 40 bucks with 6 days left in the month I think too much about selling books to a used book store how much I'm going to get what I'm going to use it for thinking of selling some of my videos and CD's for cash down on Haight Street riding the bus worked up wondering how much they'll give me for Kurosawa for a Bunuel film when that energy could be spent writing thinking until words flowed instead of worrying gotta get that money to keep this hotel room where no one person knows what I do with my time for more than a few hours-- maybe a boyfriend here to have sex-- doesn't know how I spend my time otherwise I live alone in a hotel room to keep my privacy in tact and my reclusive-ness
POETRYREPAIRS 13.01: 004
SUE LITTLETON : Letting Go
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : Driving the Laurels
MARIE KAZALIA : money fucks me up
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