poetryrepairs 16.02:023

MATT HUNDLEY : 023poem2

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The two are intoxicated, one woman collapsed and the other in a trance. We’ve all seen the movies, we know them. The paint handling is smooth and calculated. A marriage of heaven and Hell – preventing the potential spread of organisms from one moon or planet to another. Innumerable pleasures for the eye, as well as temporal psychic shelter. I scratch out the sequence of 3 billion chemical letters that define the human being. Her voice shooting from hospitals, the promise of delights- mostly sexual- frustratingly amorphous Nature— A rain of burning embers streaks the sky. Tears run down my cheek. I can only recall thoughts of a mother and father do they belong to me? Or are they the faces that crawl through those I have killed? Their memories somehow lick into my mind, if it is mine still…

poetryrepairs #221 16.02:023

Uncle Oppie

But what world would Oppenheimer have thought of… Doctor Atomic…certainly he would recommend a class of medications. Drugged and humiliated by a group of female students, he vows revenge- innovative variety of sexual assaults. Small female figure painted in custardy jism, and disconcertingly engaged in masquerade of his iconoclastic writings, while filling coloring books. These young women were involved, usually as perpetrators in violent murders. Those efforts were the ultimate nail in the coffin that closed adolescence. Sexuality and power combine in images of submerged brutality that implicates the viewer as a voyeur and rapist. These findings suggest that controlling the brain might be a simple matter of delivering electricity to the right cluster of cells. In the drawings, the old city streets, cropped windows along with the narrow tapering of skyscrapers. My trip has not been luxurious. I’m informed “Oppie”, as his friends call him, no longer goes to Vegas.

poetryrepairs #221 16.02:023

Oracle of Bluecreek Mountain

There is no oracle, no Bluecreek, no mountain. Made-up words. Like Polonius speaking of Hamlet’s madness method when he asked “what do you read?” “Words words words,” the prince replied, in his dark mind, in his dark words. That story is about dysfunctional relationships. This construction is about a relationship with words—functional or dysfunctional as the words say, slithering along hoping to bite, or smiling when flowers are arranged. All relationships begin with words, usually end that way. In between the alpha and the omega it is impossible to say whether actions define the words, or words create the actions. The alpha of “hello, how are you?” to the omega of “goodbye.” We pluck those words from Plato’s metaphysical realm, make them as imperfect as a final Studebaker— always searching for the abstractions to make real unreality real, whether a rose, a dream, desire, electric contemplations passing along the abstracted realm of thought, we are three blind mice searching for the dissected tail. It would be pretty to think that there is an oracle, a Bluecreek, mountain solid to stand upon. Words, for awhile, capture them, vapors in a bottle. They can’t be capped, can’t be drunk. for a time they prevent fording of Lethe, baptism in forgotten waters— only for an ecclesiastical moment.

POETRYREPAIRS #218 v15,11:144

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RALPH MONDAY, is guest editor of this issue @221 v16.c02 and a regular contributor to poetryrepairs.com