LAURIE CORSETT : Artist's Paean
APRYL FOX : Stopping Traffic
JOHN AMEN : Rapture in a Middle Class Neighborhood
POETRYREPAIRS v13.07:082
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Artist's Paean Stopping Traffic Rapture in a Middle Class Neighborhood


LAURIE CORSETT
Artist's Paean
My part of the social contract, my cultural role is to dig deep down into the depths of my soul, which connects to the collective whole to fully merge with that landscape become every bit of soil, every seed, explore the before, becoming, the bereaved, paint it in color, texture, tone, in language that is mine alone grown from and refeeding the collective tongue. Whatever the value we perceive and pay into the common purse to receive art gives beauty, pleasure, entertainment, elevation of mundane experience, communication of politics and pain, and ways to sustain intimacy, explain personal perplexities, move beyond boundaries, feel more than, embrace a common destiny, absorb accumulated wisdom, reason to believe in more than -- on and on into mystery, history, possibility, fantasy and wonder. All this the artist gives, payment for the sustenance of inspiration refueling our power to give ever more.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.07:082
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Artist's Paean Stopping Traffic Rapture in a Middle Class Neighborhood


APRYL FOX
Stopping Traffic
She who is a woman types letters on an antique typewriter while reflecting on the sad years of her youth he who is a man a god does not notice the light changing from red to green and crosses an intersection filled with screeching breaks and is surprised to find his world suddenly filled with noise.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.07: 082
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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Artist's Paean Stopping Traffic Rapture in a Middle Class Neighborhood


JOHN AMEN
Rapture in a Middle Class Neighborhood
The house, flooded with light, reminds me of a dayroom in a psychiatric ward. I am surrounded by my nemeses, John Locke in the corner of the library, scribbling annotations in my rare Shakespeare volume, which I could give a damn about, though it is worth good money. Skinner has risen from the birdbath like a heckled blue jay, determined to take my temperature with a rectal thermometer. Augustine has agreed to hawk me for thirty days, make sure I eat no meat and smoke at least two packs of cigarettes a day. Mary Magdalene sprays me with mace, despite my speaking favorably of her mentor. All in all, this is city living, without the city; this is being a neutered tiger in a circus, watching shadows parade like narcoleptic madmen from one side of a room to the other. Some of the best conversations I've had have been with myself. Some of the best trumpeters I've heard subsisted on caffeine and didn't give a thought to getting into heaven. Every secret I've kept has killed a part of me, like Afghanis lined up in a soccer field, executed as Taliban reps drive laps in American SUVs. I have tried my best to honor each sunset, to, in absentia, vote for the dawn, but I am unsure if my compliments have meant much, and I'm sure my vote did not sway things, as the day was, undoubtedly, rigged long before the notion of democracy was invented.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.07: 082
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LAURIE CORSETT : Artist's Paean
APRYL FOX : Stopping Traffic
JOHN AMEN : Rapture in a Middle Class Neighborhood

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