poetryrepairs 15,02:016

JOHN HORVATH Jr : Sinking into the Appalachicola National Forest
Restaurant : LAURA CLOSE
NICK BRUNO : The Art of Poetic Cleansing

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Sinking into the Appalachicola National Forest

Stuck on a stump, I descend to lock the front axles and find myself mired. At knee depth I grab the steering wheel-- three tons of International threatens to seal my tomb. At waist deep, I recall 1950s jungle films: heroines lay back in quicksand and evenly distribute the weight --this, I discover, creates better suction. When brackish water cools my chin and bugs explore the hidden ways of my beard, I've all the time of my life to reconsider selling my 4-by-4 for a more practical family car.

published in The Gree Cuisenart
poetryrepairs #209 15,02:016


Taurus contains the bright star Aldebaran. Receptionists pick up the electronic signals and translate the constellation into pictures. This hotel is out of the way and we can see the stars at night. It’s a starry night. The owner has invited us to check out his fine restaurant; he has a fine sense of hospitality. I learn that Taurus contains the Pleiades and Hyades, and the Crab Nebula.

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:016

The Art of Poetic Cleansing

They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool. - John Lennon
The ivy glistens with the morning rain as he clambers up the latticework to the leering spire; above the leaves' reach – the looking down is considerable and always fashionable. The climb up is precarious, but he feels well worth the view of the nose hairs, inches away from parietal lobe near the purported crux of their industry. His quick ascent causes the crack of link beneath his feet. The slimy leaves slip from his grasp and he falls head-long onto the sedges below. The surge of pain deadens his senses. He wakes inside a room filled with wall-papered words; succumbs to the tug of creative urgency, but does not know where to look or what letters to choose. He stares at them so long that they crisscross on the rods and cones of inverted logic ingraining themselves on retinal banks – the walls of ars poetica purged to white.

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:016

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