poetryrepairs #206 14.11:121
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : Standard Poodle Anniversary
RICHARD FEIN : William Bendix, Babe Ruth, and Dad
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Standard Poodle Anniversary
A poodle be what our love resembleth, not the overly-groomed pompon type that hath a light bulb for a tail and stupid fright wig and embarrassing pink skin taut on its nervous legs, and not miniature. Our poodle standeth not still to allow some stranger to arrange its haunches for a Milkbone. Our poodle be unkempt and matted and rolleth in mud and briars, and eateth cheese until it farteth comically and slobbereth on the Bible and probably hath gingivitis. It will never pranceth in a show as a stout woman trotteth by its side in sensible shoes. Our poodle humpeth chair legs and pant legs and smiles with no lips and be not always tame.

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:121

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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William Bendix, Babe Ruth, and Dad
"He did it, dad, to help a child dying in a hospital." saw it on TV. Made the kid promise to get better if he hit a homer. During the game he pointed where he was going to hit the ball. He was pointing for the kid." We passed exit 6. I was six I was riding in front next to dad. No seatbelts then. Dad's right hand left the wheel and patted my head. As we passed exit 6, my one-armed driver laughed and said, ". . .actor . . . William Bendix . . .  not for dying child . . . I was there that day  . . . they called the Babe fatso . . . He pointed to the bleachers  . . . it was a dare  . . . it was defiance . . . but not for any dying child." No dying child, but a very quiet one in the front seat riding close to the windshield without a belt. I studied the rearview mirror< as exit 7, 8, and 9 passed. Our exit, exit 10, was next. Somehow the distances between exits grew shorter each time I drove with dad. Dad also was quiet after he laughed. In the mirror, I kept watching the road recede. I didn't look ahead. I knew where we'd get off. No one needed to point the way

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:121

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You've taken my dreams away, America, and pawned them on the streets of Manhattan laid them blatantly across the hungry belly of young and skinny whores from Puerto Rico, and played god when our children died in Baghdad ... Where are you going America, my dreams and my insanity? Won't you cry for Vietnam, and buy flowers for the dead? Walk hunchbacked in the memory of all those men you've killed around the world, and kneel down to their children and say you're sorry? You've taken away my dreams, America, and soon you'd be walking alone talking to yourself like your insanity

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:121

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.

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ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : Standard Poodle Anniversary
RICHARD FEIN : William Bendix, Babe Ruth, and Dad

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