poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106
DAVID P. KOZINSKI : Homebody L. S. SHEVSHENKO : The Saddest in the World STEVEN CROSS : The Neighborhood |
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DAVID P. KOZINSKI HomebodyThe taste of metal in my mouth I want to return to the home I never quite lived in where I knew several unanxious days and convincing colors – meat redder on a Dutch plate, the girl's aureoles the hue of Peace roses, the white and black tiles gleaming like icing on the cantilevered, cold floor. Like my friend's ex-wife who yanks their children around like disappointing dolls, I will someday wake and wonder how everything flattened and grew quieter remember how the wind poured through every slit and pinhole in that house wailing like an ill-tempered organ how the intoxication of pulling down walls settled in dust and lath. Without moving one home becomes another, a train hiccoughing in syncopation from station to station and back down its too familiar tracks, night pressing at the windows punctured here and there by searchlights and small deaths spat from campfires. poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106
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All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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from v04.09 |
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. TOP |
DAVID P. KOZINSKI : Homebody L. S. SHEVSHENKO : The Saddest in the World STEVEN CROSS : The Neighborhood thank you for reading poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106 |
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