poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:073
WARD KELLEY : Pushing, Pushing
DEE SUNSHINE : Down To Earth
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Pushing, Pushing
You were driven, you know (why, oh why, can't I) and never did locate the correct way out, or proper note to score the flight all the way, all the way. There was something pushing, pushing, from within your being, while your fame and marriages and suicides propelled you through all our decades like a wiry wisp . . . although you know the real impellent generates at the core of your soul. There, there boils the fury of being . . . of residing on this side, a tantrum against this shackle of body; so it never mattered very much if you sang out right, or married right, or performed to expectations; what mattered was the expression of fury channeled into some acceptable means to be heard or seen around this imperfect world. Why, oh why, oh why can't this vision of soul let you go? Why can't you . . . you knew all along you couldn't . . . you knew none of us really could . . . yet you were the wisp who even though you knew you couldn't, still yearned out your trembling question, why, oh why, can't I.

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:073

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

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

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WARD KELLEY bote to 'Pushing, Pushing':

Judy Garland was the assumed name of Frances Gumm (1922-1969). She made her stage debut at age three, spent several years in vaudeville, then at thirteen signed a contract with MGM. She made many memorable movies, most famous of which was The Wizard of Oz, in which she played a role originally intended for Shirley Temple. Garland's personal life was usually in turmoil. The studio put her on diet pills, and before long she also needed pills to sleep and others to stay awake. By age twenty-one she was seeing a psychiatrist regularly.\ Judy Garland married five times, and endured several career disasters. On June 22, 1969, she was found dead on the floor of her London apartment, the coroner attributing her death to an accidental overdose of sleeping pills. Actor Ray Bolger, the scarecrow from Oz, commented, "She just plain wore out."

Down To Earth
In the dark aftermath of returning to ground, our eyes gouged out and our mouths parched, nothing made sense but blindness and thirst. Stumbling, raw-tongued, we followed only the urgent call of need, the path of simple requisites; felt out with the roots of our feet, the seeds of our bellies, the hunger of our sex. Smooth and soft to callous fingers, we were seduced into complacency, into loving our godless estate. To be filled, rested, sheltered; nothing more was required, nothing more requested. In the darkness of fucking, we were drawn to the perilous edge of the sublime. We loved the danger of sex. The entrapment. The rent flesh of remembering. The once upon a time of atonement. It made our defilement all the more ecstatic.
In the darkness we burrowed down into the ground,
down deep into the moist torpid soil, through graveyard bones and dense humus, dead roots and forgotten coins; through the flaccid vacuous yoni of the slain hunter goddess. Here, within the rotted womb, the corpses of gralloched deer and raped swallows; a landscape of rusted slippers, creeping ivy, pools of menses, broken mirrors. Down, we burrowed; rooting out worms and small crustaceans, crunching stones in greedy teeth, feeding coarse bellies, with no thought of nutrition or digestion: only of filling holes.

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:073

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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"Robot-Subs Delve for Downed Plane's Secret." He worries the spoon in his oatmeal over headlines.  How do you teach ethics to a robot? His napkin's  become an origami bird. This brave new world  more mysterious than a wreck at the bottom  of the sea. Underwater depths. His mind, he jokes,  down-under. Mathilda waltzes into memory.  Matty his wife who was and will be. What is  the robotic mind? He dog-ear fingers corners  of the morning's news. Mathematics of cooking  oatmeal: how many flattened grains of oats, how  many grains of salt to water. And how do you  compute, when one grain isn't equal to the other?  Fields of wild-oats silver-gold in sun. Oat grains  rolled thin, flattened by the years. Robots will  cook our breakfast, harvest our lives. Set down  the spoon, the folded paper of his mind.

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:073

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

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:073
WARD KELLEY : Pushing, Pushing
DEE SUNSHINE : Down To Earth

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