he quit taking notes years ago
my story repeated many times
same beginning same ending
he knows how I feel about it
angry bitter regretful enraged
we've gone over it over it over
somethings can't be undone
somethings can't be unstuck
maybe it's all a bit life lesson
perhaps you needed this fall
will make you a better person
having loved lost lived through
makes you strong resilient stuff
unmovable untouchable muted
tell me again tell me again again
The Line
Take a certain length
of, let's say
fiber—
of, that which
there is never enough
in the span of human diet
and we fein check
tensile strength
of, pushing, pulling
from index to thumb
right and left,
or taking a tooth
primitive to,
gnaw it
quick like
in a suture
of, temporary
fit—
to be tied off
and dispensed with
like a dangling
preposition
to which proposition
of, we need
only append—
some customary phrase
of, furthermore
or as well—
or something similar,
as to extend
the remark—
without altering
effect and continuity
of, thought
or wire
on which dial tone
depends—
the somewhere
along, the spectrum
or broadband
of, understanding
that follows us
like umbrage
taken, in defense
of, the long shadow
behind the hooker's
lashes
or the dalliance
that melts us
into common shade
of, divergence
and still we look
in storybook reference
for the Guiseppi
connection
individual,
what keeps us
assembled, schooled
and attentive—
to the draft of work
we were meant,
as lineage—
to accomplish
what withal
invisibly held
strands
of, that lower
and raise
our arms and teeth
like piano keys
and animate our feet
in directions
of, or way wards
we might
question—
drawing attention,
if the public crease
of, our mouths might
speak independent
of, the projection
in the diaphragm
that resounds
with authority
of, ventriloquists
and master scripts
of, social recital
amid the wool
we are pulling
as we ready our trays
at the soup counter
where we ration
and gather
our portion
of, hallucinatory
daily fare—
while
at the back
of, is waiting
the rod and the bait
not spared with image
notes, smoke or underline
reflected in the
buoy of, water
with a smear
from the corner
of, a blurry signature
and every fading
memory mark
on paper
of, any me,
myself—
and
I
2024 APR 18
Butthole Surfers, raditude, new sprouts, German flavors, and ghost of word.
From the work here on the site, thrown over to Prose. Radio's episode 25 on YouTube, Butthole Surfers lead us into a piece with sass, followed by sprouting words of grace, into one -then two- bits of German taste on the tongue, and wrapped by a grip of a ghost with grit.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVZw1ZbauGQ
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811875/tonight-i-could-writeoh-dammit https://www.theprose.com/post/807048/glowing-and-growing-new-sprouts-at-night
https://www.theprose.com/post/812246/german-potato-salad https://www.theprose.com/post/812228/if-you-ate-a-proper-german-crumb-cake
https://www.theprose.com/post/811880/ghosts-of-word
And, as always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Memories
The red glow
of a lit
cigarette,
a puff of a smoke, a joke, and a hearty laugh
all from the big man in a flimsy porch chair
on a summer eve on the street where I grew up.
A nicotine-
stained forefinger
tapping a beat
on the steering wheel of a station wagon
carrying me from grade school on a spring day,
back to the home on the street where I grew up.
A young boy’s
forefinger (mine)
pointing with pride
at the big man in the blue police uniform
stepping out of his car in the driveway
of the home on the street where I grew up.
The big man’s
proud smile,
firm handshake,
and warm gaze into my eyes at my graduation
from college, something he never accomplished
in all the years he was growing up and adulthood.
The retired
big man holding
my little child,
his first grandchild, up to his stubbled cheek
while wearing a brown security-guard uniform,
during my visit to the home where I grew up.
An organ plays
“On Eagle’s Wings”
at the big man’s
funeral. I touch his coffin, fight back a tear,
console my mom and brothers. It’s too painful
to recall events in the house I grew up in.
My son’s
forefinger
taps a beat
on the steering wheel of his car. “Just like Grandpa,”
I say from the passenger seat. We both laugh
as I recall life with Dad in the house I grew up in.
#
The Killing Moon, in rain, on hold, something for Belarus, and a wick ingnited in capture.
Episdode 24 weighs in with five featured pieces from five brutally talented writers. Led by Echo & The Bunnymen's famous song, these five bring their steel breath and beauty into whichever device you have for them...
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FO84K-eB6zw
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/810836/maine-in-the-rain https://www.theprose.com/post/811862/windowsill
https://www.theprose.com/post/811914/extra-hold https://www.theprose.com/post/811937/a-poem-for-the-burnt-out-belarusian-houses
https://www.theprose.com/post/811905/to-hold-a-candle
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
The Women in the Trees
Let me tell you the story,
of the women in the trees
A girl,
draws water from a well
the forest, all temperate and windy in the mountains draws back
her rebozo sticks to her arms
clay pot jabs against her waist
things are done differently in the mountains
water-slick hands
dirt and masa beneath her nails
she's only thirteen
that's old enough
A grandmother,
older than the revolution
tucked herself away during the Cristero
old enough to remember when men dangled from the trees,
sits
frowning
kneading at stone
mortar and pestle
push and pull
there was no electricity, yet, not in the mountains
The girl,
her granddaughter
pours the water into the adobe lavadero
splashes her skirt a little
no running water yet either in the mountains
The grandmother,
kneading
cross dangling from her neck
on her knees, penitent flattening masa
tells her
to go get more
everything is done by hand here in the mountains
The girl,
chipped clay pot in hand
twin braids,
the way her mother used to do
does as asked
twisting and pulling
rope stinging her calloused palms
she's only a child
but she's got hands
like she's been working since she was born
A man,
wanders out of the arboles
swaying trees that break apart for him
he calls out to her
a glint in his eye
a friend, he calls himself
The girl,
she hoists up her pot
and her skirts
and tells him that he's gone the wrong way
preparing to run
The man smiles,
and descends upon her
you want this, he says
i want you, he says
it's love at first sight, he says
and wraps his arms around her
she screams
she runs up the hill
fast feet can only do so much
against a man
he catches her
the clay pot shatters
it was a different time, but we knew it was bad even then, in the mountains
he hurts her
simply
angrily
she claws and screams and bites and cries
jagged edges of clay digging into her back
The man,
wild-eyed
blood-hungry
sinks his knife
over and over in her chest
until she is more wound than girl
The grandmother,
runs down the hill
down the ranchero steps
past the chickens
past the trees
flour stuck to her fingers
shrieking the name of her child's child
he stabs her
forty-two times
they only have open-casket funerals in the mountains
her arms
are covered in defensive wounds
grandmother-skin all worn and sagged
sliced open
to the bone
her daughters,
away
what a tragedy, whispers the chismosa
stand quiet
at the viewing
grandmother and granddaughter, abuelita y nieta, laid out like wounded angels
takes two days before the viewing is over
before the Church says it's alright to bury them
their refuge is in heaven now
The man,
flees
before he can be strung up
there are no police in the mountains
The daughters,
hear
whispers,
convocations,
allegations,
of the man who did it
a slip of tongue
a twist of fate
word of mouth
he who hurts is here
this was how we did things in the mountains
braided hair, just like their mother's mother
knives belted to their waists
poised low in the trees
lying in wait
as the man,
walking home
along the dirt road
gnawed on a nectarine
pit and juices jutting against his teeth
daughters,
mother-blood hot and angry
descended upon him
his nectarine, laid in the red dirt, an afterthought
as they drew into him
and cut
Pablo Neruda’s heart, god of Rusty James, history soup, Bob Ross paints, spins, and a fireside story.
In number 23, on Prose. Radio, Pablo Neruda sets the tone, and a wave of talent numbering 8 takes the wheel and drives us through some dark alleys, and some sun beaming through the window. RustyJames blends into the six to appear, each shining down in their own untouchable light, with Huckleberry_Hoo taking us into the firescape with something beautiful.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LxQOO-4ROs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811409/i-am-alone-there-is-no-god-where-i-am https://www.theprose.com/post/811326/simone
https://www.theprose.com/post/811410/sharing-history-soup-with-a-friend https://www.theprose.com/post/810851/bob-ross-paints-his-eden
https://www.theprose.com/post/811211 https://www.theprose.com/post/811248/on-the-road-by-myself
https://www.theprose.com/post/811317/the-24-spinz https://www.theprose.com/post/811208/two-stiffs-and-a-weirdo
https://www.theprose.com/post/811397/the-pooh-tutorials
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Mazzy Star’s spell, dusk, Spinoza, leftovers, and one Russian love poem.
On the show today, Mazzy Star lights the way into a dark and light wave of five unyielding talents from Prose. Mariah leads the rest of the requests, down or up through the beauty of these brains, all wrapped in a bow from Russia with love.
Here's the link, you magnificent mofos.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TII4uFRDm8
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/804782/dusk https://www.theprose.com/post/811051/converted-brahmanist-2024-spinoza
https://www.theprose.com/post/808088/you-took https://www.theprose.com/post/810984
https://www.theprose.com/post/810980/leftovers https://www.theprose.com/post/811048/-
Count my ribs with your fingers through my skin, I'm layered like a stone fruit.
My deconstruction is earth quaking
My aftershock is charming
My goosebumps are a compliment
I collect from the floor all that belongs to me and leave with a key in my pocket meant to unlock you later.
I'm a glow worm, attracted by my own light. I gut myself like you never could.
Don't worry dear, you're safe for now
since I've turned you into poems.
Unworthy of a name.
Pigeons are content with my offerings
and so should you be.
But
I'll shred you later.
Tonight I was preoccupied, bored of your songs juvenile love cries. Straining my ear toward the outside traffic longing for some real waves crashing.
Though I did leave you a memory,
the wallpaper above your bed unglued with the breath of me.
Bob Ross Paints His Eden
happy little trees surround
nakedness, so Bob draws
knowledge with colors that spread through the garden
an orange fire of knowing, until the people start wearing
clothes. hats grace the heads of everyone, lined like store
mannequins in dress shop windows. purple veils, pink brims,
the garden turns into shopping
malls and sky scrapers, brush
strokes turn violet fields into a gravel road painted just so
which lends itself to country drives. skinny jeans painted blue-
black, hide tired saggy bodies
until no one looks like anyone else.
the summers are drenched with colors of broken
leaves, until chips of paint flecks the canvas and the imperfections are revealed,
the fruit taken, the body discovered, the truth
like flies buzz around the heads of the many, while Bob explains god the way he paints,
how anyone can do what he does,
maybe even better.