poetryrepairs #203 14.08:090
LEE PURSEWARDEN : After a Poem by Albert Caeiro
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After a Poem by Albert Caeiro
"At night I suddenly awake" & the glow of red numbers fills the room 12:21, its fearful symmetry seems forced until 12:34, a message fraught with terror. Outside, the neighborhood, the street, other apartments have shrunk to this room, to its crimson digits. There is no sound to the wind in the dry leaves traffic has disappeared, no emergencies are allowed. By then it is 1:11; what could be simpler more precise? until 1:23, then dreams of Pythagorus. I awake at 2:22, then doze off at 2:34 until startled at 3:33, awaiting 3:45 that "suffocates all existence on Earth & above…" I watch the red numbers reflect off the wall flipping & changing to 4:32, then 4:44 & finally sleep at 5:55, sensing the end when light erases the room's darkness the red digits fading, fading.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:090

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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The Morning After
  We was drunk last night, dancin', laughin' ta music, an' Millie was all over me. She was warm in my arms this morning an' I hate the sweat of her palms on my face. She'd told me once she had demons an' she warned me, “I don't trust men.”  I didn't listen. I didn't want to. We all have demons an' Millie's one of mine. I don't hear the floor squeak when she leaves no more.   We loved each other once, but 96th Street drained it out of us. Ma told me "men don't cry cause the zip bag veins in our bodies is dry ta a woman's tears... you're pale," she said, an' any man she hung with beat 'em out of me.   I felt the old women's skin waitin' for me ta stumble down the stairs the morning after. It's their way of tellin' me they heard the head bangin' even when my music's playin' too loud. They ain't getting' out of my way; thinkin' maybe I'll fall, break my neck, and the halls won't weep.   The bums on the corner tryin' ta get a lick from a bottle that's been dry all night. He's gunna beg me for a dollar he knows he ain't gunna get. I hate the damn buzzer on the liquor store's door. The bum knows I'm goin in, getting' mine; and he knows I ain't sharin'. When ya been here this long, ya don't give a shit, cause ya know he's your next step.   If Millie comes back, she better bring her own; cause I ain't sharin' even if I did love her once. I'm keepin' mine cause the weepin' halls dry ya out, an' ya get thirsty and no one shares.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:090

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

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RACHEALGRACE ADAMS kives in the American WEST where she writes her magnificent descriptions, some reportage and some near tactile.

He struts in like a bad John Wayne impression, leans an arm on the bar. The dust on his coat could be from a ranch, but the reek of mothballs gives him away. Stoic eyes glaze with effort of pretending to be blind to passing sways. His shoulders stiff in anticipation of a soft touch, necessary human contact. He never smiles, passes time giving the lights smoke halos. He goes home alone, confused as to why. She said, "Good night, sweet dream", her lips close to his ear. A hand brushes wayward wisps from his face. Gentle kiss left on his cheek. She smiles as she looks at him, sighs stretches, naked moonlight glistening her flesh. Door shut tight as she leaves. In the shower, she finds permanent marker marks her. She has to scrub off layers of skin. Crimson spots prick through thinning tissue. Behind the mist, she smiles, lets the smoke take her thoughts through the vent to the cold outside… they freeze drop shatter sparkle with the snow. She wraps in terry cloth warmth wraps her hands round a cup… coffee steam hisses… "What did you do?" Nothing. Relentless steam: "What did you give him?" She searches smoke memories… sweet dream; the world needs dreams as sweet as his… if only she could remember how. She empties the cup silences steam, goes to join his sweet dreams. The door opens to scarlet walls drying deep burgundy. A knife slants in his chest. She screams at what someone has done.

from poetryrepairs archive
poetryrepairs #203 14.08:090

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. -- O.E.D.


LEE PURSEWARDEN :After a Poem by Albert Caeiro

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