poetryrepairs #198 v14.03:032
STEPHEN MEAD : He's Fairly Young
JOHN HORVATH Jr : Our Heroes
D. B. COX : The American Traveling Circus
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He's Fairly Young
And how strange to suddenly see him with clothes, roles cut-out as though for a doll. My sister had that type: magnetized, life one-sided but for a wardrobe. Yet he's whole I keep insisting, reaching for a hand, planet-unique, to block out the image of diamond-printed jockey shorts, sock straps, a leather briefcase and the suits all equipped with little fold about tabs. Do these things wear him——-? Little doubts inch forth, as if stud shots were preferable: unblemished centerfold flesh, generic fantasy smile, eyes light-bulb gleaming above the expected erection. The faces then, there, have an almost oops look or casual innocence or business, get down to intense touch and play. But his play's been reality and passion: the scale of an improvised opus laying the body, spirit wide even when only small hours, a slow melody's fragment finding its script, the charted notation again in the glasses on an open book, light of a nearby arm, its every purring hair. I told time by this. We lived accompanied by the clear calm of ripples, concentric, surging outward rich and full in waves which rocked with climbing fire. Come up, come up, I say inside, unclasping the watch fob, the cogs, lowering the briefs, the briefs and these tabs, these tabs that keep  that keep getting in the way.

poetryrepairs #198 v14.03:032

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

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Our Heroes
These villages have many names; These families have many names; These churches, too, have names. Church walls have names their eyes stare down upon us while we live. Someday to Paradise We shall follow them as we follow today. We have a mission for our dead Stone heroes: accept our plea when we call upon your memory. Blood under flesh and Bone beneath blood, Their souls remembered. An old veteran's last rites Adds one to their number. We are as one at such times. We shroud their coffins With flags to remember The art of sacrifice. For enemies Such weapons Lay in wait Where we leave them In soil we surrendered. The dead guard our retreat.

poetryrepairs #198 v14.03:032

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The American Traveling Circus
The bus drifts up an off-ramp somewhere on I-85. We're moving toward the second show of the day. Two, is nothing new. It's 1968, & business is good. Behind me, the trumpet man blows gently into the mouthpiece of his horn. Warming up. But there's really no need, he only does one solo per set & it's always the same. He's got it down cold, all heart & soul. TAPS? Miles himself couldn't play it any sadder. We feature – "one of the few", dress-blue choreography: Fire the rifles. (… don't think) Blow the horn. (… don't feel) Fold the flag. (… don't consider) Pass it over to a drug-stunned mother, hand-salute, (… don't mean nothing) & climb back on the iron-gray bus. Yeah, we got it made, out here on the highway -- Moving faster now, as if we're being pulled along by some unseen force. All of us -- bound for that vanishing point somewhere in the heat-shadowed distance.

poetryrepairs #198 v14.03:032

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


STEPHEN MEAD : He's Fairly Young
JOHN HORVATH Jr : Our Heroes
D. B. COX : The American Traveling Circus

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