poetryrepairs #206 14.11:126
ROBERT JOE STOUT : The Orphanage
MICHAELEEN PENNINGTON : Hermitted
DYAN SANDEFER : It Don't Add Up
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ROBERT JOE STOUT

The Orphanage
river railroad tracks patched jeans locked-shut windows (like a fort) smell of pine sol sweat constant coughing daily chores “Hail Mary, full...” (of...shit) Grace? who's she? taste of swallowed cigarette (don't puke!) sexless penguins “Yessum, please...” oatmeal every goddamned day steal cookies scribble dirty words learn to sneer fistfights (why not?) win at something if only sniffing glue

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:126

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

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



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MICHAELEEN PENNINGTON
Hermitted
Here, quiet surrounds and waits. Crawl deeper. Inside is safe Not like this quiet, where only the refrigerator hums an insensate pulsing rhythm. Stop hands, don't shake; pull it all in where darkness is light. Where none-ness is being - stop the churn of stomach that threatens rebellion. The choice is made. It's been sounded; echo's vibrations are gone. Stop the inner fear that clutches with boned fingers there is no need, no want Crawl deeper, find that which was, before. Accept it, be infused with its desire become again the hermetic that pulls away from the shades. This used to be happy, no needs, no wants, nothingness was happy, nothingness was feeling. Happy, content; false death. Death would be - there -- here forgotten - forget.

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:126

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

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DYAN SANDEFER It Don't Add Up
I'm no mathematician, but I got the sense to know when two plus two equals three, somebody is all mixed up. Like the time we bought nine watermelons from the watermelon man and he had to scratch his head and lean down and scratch the dirt to come up with the wrong answer for nine times two dollars and fifty cents. When he said, "That'll be twenty-seven fifty", I knew something was terribly wrong. I got enough sense to know something else too. Here in our fair state of Louisiana, they say we don't have any worthwhile targets for biological terrorist attacks. (that's what the state police man said, can you believe that? Right there on television, in front of God and everybody.) Well, if we don't have any worthwhile targets, why are they riding the state epidemiologist all around the state, telling the doctors what to do in the unlikely event of a biological terrorist attack? Somethin' don't add up, I tell you. What are we gonna do? Something is terribly wrong. I tell you.


poetryrepairs #206 14.11:126

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.

Amendment VI
In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense.

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ROBERT JOE STOUT : The Orphanage
MICHAELEEN PENNINGTON : Hermitted
DYAN SANDEFER : It Don't Add Up

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