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 Aug 2013 Sal Gelles
Kristo Frost
the
soft
smell
of
silk
fills
the
room
folds
flowing
before
flower­ing
in
the
mind
 Aug 2013 Sal Gelles
Tim Knight
Chicago, where the rails become streets,
where the wind winds around corners to double tier trains that rain down with thunder below
cloudbursts of snow and slow traffic

Chicago, where cars and trucks stop at lights on the bridges, resting wheels on wet tarmac and men pass by wearing cagoules and flat caps: bohemian grandparents on northern fronts.

Chicago, where every building is a flat iron or a pencil windowed and widowed of safety net architecture,I look up from the window and flutter as she does, the suicide shipwreck standing atop a roof looking up and falling down, into river and rail track wakes.


If the dial-up allows it and this note finds its way through the orchestra, let me tell you this:

*You look lovely in your flower tattooed white dress.
I shall write about  you until you read about yourself and smile, the rest has
been thrown into the wind and has come to settle in the tidal flow, sit tight and see where it goes.
He didn't get married in Chicago

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 Aug 2013 Sal Gelles
M
The love of my life never loved me back.
We only kissed once, and she had a crush on
some other guy anyway.
But I couldn't get enough of her.
Whenever she cried I felt
like I couldn't breathe.
And the next time I would
see her smile my pulse would quicken,
as if my blood was trying to get out to
show her that our hearts were
still pounding at us.
And who knows. Maybe love will come
back to me. Maybe this time it will
look at me and smile.
But I will always remember that kiss.
The way she leaned towards me in the dark
so she could deny it ever happened in the morning
and filled me with such electricity
I wanted to cry, because I've never felt
more alive than when I was on fire.
Helios ****** his seed of light— Phaethon's act,
Pleasures born of pain, in the balled glass eyes,
Frees a moat of grey matter cloud, light crackles,
And one blue silent flash— mirrors zodiac skies.
The Phaethon story has often been understood to commemorate some great flashing event in the skies, whether comet or meteor. Everyone rushes by instinct—more accurately, habit—for a so- called natural explanation. But on examination, the case turns out not to be so easy. The narrating of the cataclysm may be fanciful and impressionistic, as if the poets enjoyed an emotional release from the regularity of celestial orbs . . .

"And the whole Skies were one continued Flame.

The World took Fire, and in new kindled Stars

The bright remembrance of its Fate it bears. . . "

                    — from, The Metamorphoses by Ovid
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