KIRBY WRIGHT : Sea Cliff Man
JARRETT FULTON : Only Skin Deep
MICK KENNEDY : Terre Haute
POETRYREPAIRS 13.09:107
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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Sea Cliff Man Only Skin Deep Terre Haute


KIRBY WRIGHT
Sea Cliff Man
Voilà the leaping spot in Del Mar. Surfboards bob the indigo sea. Super 8 threads through me. We rode the Octopus at the fair. Surfboards bob the indigo sea. A girl in sapphire smiles. We rode the Octopus at the fair. Smells of cotton candy, donuts, vomit. A girl in sapphire smiles. You said I was invisible. Smells of cotton candy, donuts, vomit. My skin as translucent as a ghost. Listen to the gulls cry. Super 8 threads through me. Indian summer colds. Voilà the leaping spot in Del Mar.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.09:107
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

FIND home
Sea Cliff Man Only Skin Deep Terre Haute


JARRETT FULTON 
Only Skin Deep
Upon my arrival at this school facility: Am I God to judge one's face? Such hideous faces I see Such unveil creatures at this sorority's university Am I Picasso, only to create portraits of the Damn? Such faces that is colored in black For I have been from hell and back Women, which has been tormented Their sorrow and vanity boils this earth And I ask Him why To create such humanly monsters To bear a child uglier than thee And to curse, to curse This damn local university
POETRYREPAIRS 13.09: 107
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

guidelines INDEX
Sea Cliff Man Only Skin Deep Terre Haute


MICK KENNEDY
Terre Haute
Pangea or cliché? Window down, my hair is jazzed, and there's a poem in my glovebox that I've got to find: reaching past the yellowed registration, wavering in the splendid- petrified-peppermint-asphalt heat of white-hyphened I-70 all the way to st-louie. A few receipts from that Oasis of belladonna ... sacrifice a few Pollies for the good of the spleen. I'm spent-- dashed all my time on reciprocal allotments. A white-gold Celtic band, press some fresh flowers under your skin and miss the grin of warm despair; we should charge those eveningthings to the sunset, pollen pleasant, but we nap and nudge what's next into the glimmer of an hour. "Silver sometimes seeds discontent," said she who once perched here. When will the stay in me cement? O O O O the whine of the tires, II I should've taken old 46 that weaves through our mother's lovelies, those speckled corridors wreathed in everdreams, we're all waiting on some wind, and blackbirds sitting backward on telephone wires: here, the puck resides, so turn into the skid and trick things out; a smeared grocery list? Mother's innards, so bewitched, can only give... The masquerade of signs, a small adjustment to the rearview mirror, roll down the window to listen to the roar, and we chased down the street by rain would fire the furnace at midnight and bugle blow our own planets and stars that we could use for a game of marbles in the elm's shade; and the old man with the prettiest gems might show if he wants to- but you saintly thorn, yourself pricked, snapped and pushed the arrows on through. A short smile. Pop a match, light the nest, I'll watch as the flames limp up on twigs and leaves, spitting their own new suns (it's a drag the wait for a rhyme) that fall to the ground, and the headline from the daily blackens to blackbird blue. III Such a savage cut in my only rainbow: dreary desk, the mess to make a match that's made to mess. You pelican, posted from Florida flame, as he looses the dogs to run while stabling the horses and whose been finger-painting the sky again? Swirling tumultuous Homeric hues? In fervent embrace, I fret over idols that ride night's drape, that crazy eternal chase, such a strain but for the arias of the stars. And the last map extracted from the hold; could this be the end of the line? Once more into the autumn machine, a few pieces of beach glass spill on the floor board, and, this morning, nightcrawlers spoke in frozen phrases, stuck in asphalt parking-lot spaces, traces of some ancient tongue, while above, geese struggle to divine some symbol. I fell over the curb, bloodied me knee; to the chase then: poet or merely marionette? But for the armada of cirrus longships, I repent, and slave to soften stiffening words. Stir, yes sir, stir the pot. Each of us a Rome. Head for the hilltop for that one smooth stone, but mind the jagged edges; they'll slice ya clean open. Simmering. . . lastly. IV I stop for a field of peacocks, climb the wild strawberry-choked fence to walk among them. Some set there to loathe, others to love, and still others busy with being peacocks. Their cry fractures the scene, and they fan out mean iridescent plumes, and me? I leap into one of the thousand eyes to excavate their sinews and pools of marrow and shards of artifacts, each a different way of being--time, arranged in eights: must I wither from the weight of all the yesterdays? Empty Coke can and a stale cigarette I'll smoke & smoke, try to reside on some thin cloud, be an architect of alone, wait at the loom with my foot on the treadle, whittle away at strange bones, draw on habits of irrelevant blooms and gray skies, index gaudy moods, think thick and proud, is that why Henry dove off the bridge? lassoed some words that made him flinch and rode them hard and away? Then, you appear in the clearing, succulent translucent skin, wearing an envying dress spread upon a moss-laden stone, the sun drunk in the filling branches, your head tilted . . . there, hands cupping your favorite verse, like this, and I listen. No one: god.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.09: 107
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KIRBY WRIGHT : Sea Cliff Man
JARRETT FULTON : Only Skin Deep
MICK KENNEDY : Terre Haute


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