And there I stood silent

in a vast empty field

with the East wind

flowing steady

against my brow

And there I

swallowed memories

of past horizons

every emotion

illuminated by the sky

in teal blues

emerald greens

And there I heard

your voice

echoing gently

on the skin

of the black sea

whispering

eternity

to the lost

believer within

Quentin Taranatino's good sense inspired today's intro for number 34, and it leads us through a landscape of words and instinct and a whole lot of lovin' goin' on, baby. Some new blood opens the words, and it goes from there, into the places only the writers on this site can create.

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRD-Y7R4X5E

And here are the featured pieces.

https://www.theprose.com/post/815107/take-off https://www.theprose.com/post/815199/life https://www.theprose.com/post/815120/colonoscopyas-where-you-cope

https://www.theprose.com/post/812774/of-warmth https://www.theprose.com/post/815122/driving-home https://www.theprose.com/post/815121/gone-fishing

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

From a dirty job to bums in sewers sung beautifully, to something short and lovely, to a look at how fathers will more than likely not meet your mothers, to Babel, to a sky of seven gracing breath upon a dog thought to be doomed, episode 33 on Prose. Radio brings the noise, pleasure, pain, blood, and loving grace from six writers that get it. Dig? Dig.

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuyDd9JOnSg

And here are the featured pieces.

https://www.theprose.com/post/814941/when-i-was-seventeen https://www.theprose.com/post/814834/not-quite-9 https://www.theprose.com/post/814985

https://www.theprose.com/post/815035/the-robo-ghost https://www.theprose.com/post/814938/babel https://www.theprose.com/post/815085/seventh-sky

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

In 1989

I awoke in Ladispoli,

an inception of consciousness rose from the bed with me…

disarming my sleep,

against dust with form and rhythmic quality

I tiptoed to the opened balcony…

Bums in the sewers sang in their

sea salted skin.

While the Tyrrhenian nightfall aired, gasping from dream

I slumped my eyes over crumbs and a council of pigeons beneath…

The timing and tone teased unrest from my heart.

As I watched the galaxy part with its lights.

Enough for walls of the buildings to weep.

While the sky opened its eye and stared right back into me

I went BOOM!

and swallowed it whole with the stink and perfume making gods in the point of the light in me.

I grow a visceral fever right here

in between line breaks and stanzas

where time shows and

reveals in a space

my Borrowed

and Drifting

stages of Wandering