poetryrepairs 15,02:021

JOHN HORVATH Jr : Wewahitchka Vigilante Saves a South Miami Soul
False Blood : False Blood
BETSY E. LISTER : Where Do Beautiful Souls Go

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JOHN HORVATH Jr.
Wewahitchka Vigilante Saves a South Miami Soul

I wait in a small shack outside Wewahitchka to cruise along Cape San Blas in fisherman's gear, to hear the Gospel of Panama City TV news declare the find of picked bare bones between Cat Point, Joe Bay, and Wewahitchka. I love quick crisp winters along Florida's Panhandle where gulls flock Gulf beaches crossed by mud tired four-by-fours, semi- retired RVs, and snowbird campers, where runners scuttle late night fleets divers recover then warm themselves unseen at fires dotting the tourist sands. One such runner died in the swamp back of Money Bayou after being caught with his San Blas bag of tropic snow which should have sank with ship and crew. No one--no one, that is, but me--knew how he died struggling for air in the shallow, cursing the red burned nape of my neck as I baptized the boy into my God-fearing drug-free, all-American religion. You can call me mad hick killer--SURE, a self-appointed saint, a vigilante-- but I'm a satisfied savior who waits to cruise the waters along my sands. AND IT'S YOU I WANT TO SAVE FROM YOURSELF.

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:021





MARTIN JERVIS
False Blood

I We pledge to re-unite. A pack of small playing cards, Three of four aces Are extracted, A diamond discard Glows fiery red. A pact to be sealed By pure struck blood, A trio of flesh grown brothers, Joined and fresh faced, Menthol smoke billows, Lost amongst youthful breaths. Needles pricked In soft white thumbs Pulsing blood to smear On each card Binding the sincerity of oath. Half-hearted gesture And one slides Into the kitchen sanctum. Finds a bottle of cochineal Shakes a dark blob On an unpunctured thumb, Shallow on the veins Returns to smear the drying cards. The pact is complete The aces scrawled with names, Black spade taken by The flawed conscience. II Ten years pass quickly on. I sit at the venue In a half-pint mentality, A phoenix has returned To the ashes. At the bank overlooking the lake Swans are bedraggled And in need of a perm. The paddleboats are gone And only aged ghosts Of youthful rowers Linger in the mist. No promising men will Show up today, Shed somewhere On a planet of change. Tear up the card into dozens Of tiny linen pieces, Watch the cold breeze Float its meal Across the dry grass To the open mouth of the lake. Wait in distinct hopefulness, Only to confirm the infinite Distance of space Between two type O blood groups And the purple sap Of anonymous beetles.

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:021





BETSY E. LISTER
Where Do Beautiful Souls Go

Where do beautiful souls go when they die; Where is the comfort; where is it they lie? Are they with loved ones and cared for dear; Is an angel with them, or is one near? Lord answer the question Because I need to know Please tell me where Beautiful souls go?

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:021







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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. -- Oxford English Dictionary



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