poetryrepairs #206 14.11:128
LOIS MICHAL UNGER : She Sits Alone
WARD KELLEY : Ka inside a Pyramid
JANET BUCK : The Drug War
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LOIS MICHAL UNGER

She Sits Alone
she sits alone in the room others chat awaiting breakfast she used to kiss me hello but now she's forgotten even that

Lois Michal Unger 2014
poetryrepairs #206 14.11:128

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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WARD KELLEY

Ka inside a Pyramid
from Histories of Souls
My heart floats in the ibis jar on top my brains and liver, all my organs mixed together like a fetal mass . . . and so I am back at the womb, a time when my interior ingredients were indistinguishable from my exterior. When I have another chance at breathing, I think I will create a creature whose interior thoughts were more visible to its fellows, for I now understand most of the strife between breathing ones comes from misread intentions. Animals are more precise in their communications; their bodies change colors, emit noises and odors, and there is no misunderstanding of power. They rarely kill one of their own species. Human expressions have not kept up with the evolution of our complicated thoughts, and the skin is too dumb to sustain much more than pleasure or pain, while the nuances our flesh emits are seldom fathomed and never completed until we are all in ibis jars wishing for more succinct creatures.

poetryrepairs #206 14.11:128

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

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JANET BUCK The Drug War
Up and down. Ping pong style. Fused emotion in a slur: "She's gone again," my father says, "disappeared in vapor trails behind a plane I hoped would land in sanity." I'm saddened by the powdered sand that rows you places like a boat through dark canals of urban life, through fisticuffs of soiled love, all those boiled and buried ghosts that own your pulse and beating heart. I'm selfish too. I crave a mother's collarbone to cradle tea bags of my tears, her stalwart spine to help me with my broken necks of dreaming gone awry in woe. I pray for things to change to whole like chipmunks running up a tree, finding that a greedy bird (weakness wings in all of us) has stolen acorns, pebbled peace. I've studied us inside the fog so very long I cannot trust a rising sun to pour me morning orange juice. Bibles of touch are coffee rings to scrub away with bleached repose. Hugs seem hooking wire and worm, a formal, curt rejection slip. Add a dose of alcohol and here we play with matches over gasoline. The drug war in its battle zone of vacancy - where little capsules are the lords, where exit is the fairy tale, where needles are the unicorns.


poetryrepairs #206 14.11:128

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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LOIS MICHAL UNGER : She Sits Alone
WARD KELLEY : Ka inside a Pyramid
JANET BUCK : The Drug War

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