TAYLOR GRAHAM : Hymn: Him of Us
STEVEN G. SYMMES : Sensual Pleasure
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : 'He hears music no one else hears evenings.'
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10:119
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Hymn: Him of Us Sensual Pleasure 'He hears music no one else hears evenings.'


TAYLOR GRAHAM
Hymn: Him of Us
who is my neighbor / who accuses him / him  without salutation / him self as his only evidence  evidence or rather consequence / evidence of this  this angle this question / question what shall I do  question of lineage / lineage a close resemblance  lineage to brother / brother is a small matter  brother and I too / too poor to give / to get there  by a longer road / road to Jericho / road side or  in the field / field worked alone / field of labor /  labor under the task / labor with us / us and we  will / us with the offered hands / hands / will
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10:119
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Hymn: Him of Us Sensual Pleasure 'He hears music no one else hears evenings.'


STEVEN G. SYMMES
Sensual Pleasure
The fingers gently caressing the inviting hardness, feeling the elegant curves, carefully cut from the Maker's materials. The tongue moving sensually along the delicious shaft, tasting the warm, oily smoothness, lovingly prepared from the Maker's materials. The palate pressing hopefully against the roundness, enjoying the sure and certain tip, skillfully forged from the Maker's materials. The fingers tighten quickly The tongue lashes out The palate goes rigid The moment arrives . . . The Brain accepts the fiery bullet. The Soul embraces the blissful Darkness.
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10: 119
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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Hymn: Him of Us Sensual Pleasure 'He hears music no one else hears evenings.'


ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE
'He hears music no one else hears evenings.'
He hears music no one else hears evenings. He sees a horse and rider out the window silhouettes that no one sees against the bluff. Later we all guess if red daubs in the orchard are old apples or a flock of cardinals. His eager boy stretches to the sky. Earth food has lost its power. He reads the ceiling without glasses. Order no longer matters. Driven (with cigarettes) Who are you without a Cadillac? Are you DeSoto? Pontiac? Once this corner of Michigan was yours. Every pen said so. Frizz in your eye? Mote? Not cataracts. Smoke. Where are you going? To check the temperature downtown—which way is it? Car keys hidden in the hutch out of reach out of sight and sore eyes. Cigarettes hidden in a feed bag. Hunch your scrawny wings and smoke. Cancer-dotted hands cup around the flame guttering heart muscle and a hundred pounds of flesh less than a carcass left behind. Last two cars crunched. You'd walk a mile for— Show me your— LSMFT— Holy smokes. What's that you say? Got a light, babe? Waitress, daughter, complimentary matches. Your keys? Put away by the Secretary of State. You can't see them. Remember? You can't see. No car keys no wind to walk you're up shit creek and no paddle, Daddle. The yard is an ashtray. The key is in the hutch. Your life is in the hutch. You can't reach it. You can't even hear me. The filter's burning.
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10: 119
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TAYLOR GRAHAM : Hymn: Him of Us
STEVEN G. SYMMES : Sensual Pleasure
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : 'He hears music no one else hears evenings.'


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