poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:016
JOHN HORVATH Jr : Frank's Priest
ROBERT P. BEVERIDGE :Crushed
RICHARD VALLANCE : Falls [in linear ENGLISH to facilitate reading]
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JOHN HORVATH Jr
Frank's Priest
Frank tithes a tenth of all he has and all he's ever made or will to church; another tenth unto himself (His kingdom come. His wheels for fun-- it's almost nearly fully paid-- a house that never stays in place the wet dream of the gypsy race buried in his gypsy genes: Frank's Bluebird bus.) and confesses to his priest, My soul must burn in hell because I sacrifice so much for this good good life. A cubbard filled with Bourbon, Scotch, and Slivovitz, a case of wine, a case of two of beer, two water beds (for day or night), a rack for poles, a drawer filled with fishing tools, an outhouse built inside his house. Yes, move along, his priest would say, and NOT absolve him for this sin of pride. What if he said, O give it up! You boast you've got enough to bribe a saint to pass the pearled gates. (Frank really, really irritates his priest.) His priestly silence is a holy test. At lunch they sit together, broad ass against broad ass supposedly discuss the cost of painting in the rectory, the church's roof, but secretly they plan a weekend fishing trip. Where shall we go? How 'bout that bus? How's the missus, padre? you still wear a truss? They've known each other far too long-- a sow and sow's fart in the throng-- the other members of the church, they leave them well alone; Father- Frank ain't privy to their idle gossip. Onions. Blackbread. Muddy coffee. Jerky. Pork. They've stowed away an arsenal of gin (and wine from church). They're just two guys who plan a lark. And get away just after dark. The ladies' home auxiliary baked goods to sell; they take them too. They're on their way to hell. We'll 'hail Mary" for it on the way along the road. The Bluebird Special's on a quest and what they'll catch is anybody's guess: a sock-eye girly half a mess, a pike of poker infidels, a walleyed woman willing to undress. hey, Padre, where do you go when you confess? I've got a private place; no-waiting-in-some line. I've got a part-time gal like that, says Frank, I know just what you mean. They laugh. The cabin paid by Sunday skim is beautiful to see, Call it Limbo Shack, the two of them, who know it's as close as heaven is on earth despite what happens there at night. Love tastes like sugary confection on nightshirts thin and taunt between them. They're buddies since way back. The bishop out of town, they're even closer pals. (This part we skip: This gossip is not about their trip.) But in their dreams there are the lips of beauties kissed and never kissed; babes "bible-known" and ones they missed. Father Hrbi at Immaculate Conception Church knows Ferenc Ferenchaza has a koorveh with whom he lies night, whose sweat is stars, whose eyes are bright mayhaw, and almond skin, whose oven burns with Frank's own coal. Together, they speak in broken tongues; together, they speak of broken promises; They are America. They rest. They neither sleep nor dream. This old priest's life is hard; Frank likes to think of it. It's Byzantine.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:016

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

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading



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ROBERT P. BEVERIDGE
Crushed
Awaken in the heat of red tide. Pre. Three men play the shell game on the corner. One asks, "What am I?" and gets no answer. The dog sleeps behind him. Dreams and grunts. You have never seen the sun through volcanic ash. Pick the poison. Socrates walks with you, in your dreams. How you wish to go back to Ancient Greece! A soda can. Someone left it in the gutter. All is wires, wires and cotton gauze. Take two, they're small. The wiretap enema is only given to the most stubborn patients. Assured. One. Two. Three. Four. Collapse.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:016

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RICHARD VALLANCE
Falls [in linear ENGLISH to facilitate reading]
falls come into playing blues echoes in stoned saxophones razz-ma-tazzing down their cymbellines with all the un-mapled maple leaves and fall into fall's vermilion colouring books though not in my ole' southpaw's scrawl no in a Lord's handlesswriting though how if all's alone?


poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:016

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary



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JOHN HORVATH Jr : Frank's Priest
ROBERT P. BEVERIDGE :Crushed
RICHARD VALLANCE : Falls [in linear ENGLISH to facilitate reading]

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