The Hope Trope
Pomes and prosecco
reflect the echo
and hollowness of a love-lorn heart
Strawberries and champagne
ignite a new flame
that promise a fresh lover's start
Berries and bubbles
eavesdrop drunken mumbles
slipping from the lips of the jilted
Fruits and flutes
court new recruits
to a future that's already wilted
people tiptoe eggshelling it
worried I'll blow up bang
burst go off fly into pieces
I'll admit it happens often
takes little to detonate me
lit stoked explosive laden
not a temper just turmoil
waiting to be exasperated
stirred boiled overcooked
nothing to do with you
I was born as dynamite
ticked off bothered riled
Pusherman, taps on the steering wheel, mountain justice, and a primitive gnaw.
In case anyone has a case of the Mondays, on the show today, in number 26, Curtis Mayfield sings us into three reads by three vastly different talents with one vast thing in common: Each one is their own creator with a style like no others. Top off your coffee, and sail away with us.
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMz90tLIE5s
And here are the pieces featured within.
https://www.theprose.com/post/812076/memories https://www.theprose.com/post/811802/the-women-in-the-trees https://www.theprose.com/post/812519/the-line
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Since Stone Was Soft
She gleaned my soul...
long before the hardening;
long before the murder,
long before the pardoning.
Darkening skies
reflect no tears in her eyes,
and no matter how disheartening
my bone chilling cries,
she tries to save me...
and the love God gave me.
Now darkness and I
have grown apart,
sending my deep-seeded dreams aloft...
and this woman who's found me
has known my heart,
since the long-lost days
when that stone was soft.
...One More Dog
I'm thinking about having a dog.
I can think of lots of good reasons, worthy.
I'm thinking maybe a Whippet or a Frenchie, or a favorable mix, because that would match the family lifestyle. It would be good to care for a dog, young or old.
Having my eye on this, someday, I noticed a bulldog-pooch pic lockscreen on my co-workers phone the other day. I don't remember her name. We run into each other like once a year. It's a big company. I was displaced momentarily on call at one of our sprawling locations.
"Is that your dog?" I ventured, stricken. It could after all have only been some cute wallpaper stock.
"Yeaah, that's our Lavendar," she beamed behind tinted glasses, and touched me. On the arm, like we were friends. A sort of pet.
I'm not against touch. There's just something about some people's touch that takes something from you. That's what I felt. I hoped it didn't show on my face.
"Is it a bulldog, Frenchie; or a Boxer... or a mix...?" I said displacing my disturbance with sincere interest, small talk. I had only seen the picture for a couple seconds.
"Both! how did you know?! but she's on the small side. Takes after the French Bulldog more, right?"
"Oh, I love Frenchies," I added remembering a delightful monograph I'd read in which the writer/enthusiast said Frenchies are like potato chips... you can't have just one... and that is saying a lot...
She interrupted my thinking: "But I told my family No More. No more babies, no more puppies. No more rescues. No more. And I can't deal with either end," she said sweeping the bangs off her brow, and holding her temple like staving off a migraine.
My visuals all over the place, but I tried to keep pace: "Uh, huh."
She touched me again.
"I just can't deal with the potty training, or the incontinence. I can't. I'm DONE."
I nodded, sympathizing, for her as much as for her charges.
She looked about 65, though, it's not age that matters. She faded good humoredly.
"You're right," I thought to myself: "Best save your strength-- for when you need it."
Pr’Oxymorons In the Workforce
FROM WICKEDPEDIA: PROXYMORONS
Proximorons have now entered the workforce and have become well established with the fall of Propriety-and-Sobriety Party in the 2030s.The proxymorons were those equipped to navigate contradictions within unique job descriptions. They were a natural result of the subspecialization of professions like Military Intelligence, Solo Team Captains, Jumbo Shrimp Distributors, and Alpha-Acolytes.
For example, the heterodoxymoron head of campus security at the University of Phoenix, to his credit, has overseen the longest stretch of the absence of any mass-shootings there. He is paid $242,500 a year.
Such heterodoxymorons are the seemingly most nonsensical professionals in a sensical world or, alternatively, the most sensible professionals in a non-sensical world. Most agree, that makes sense.
For example, the Expert Witness and Testifying Mimes have been credited with making even acrimonious legal proceedings a quieter experience, despite presiding judges' inclinations to just slap the shit out of them. Their seconds are the testifying robot dancers, ready to step in jerkily, should opposing counsel succeed in impeaching them.
The Followup-Pass Inspector of W-rejects at the M&M factory is paid pro rata by how many Ws he can reject on each second pass. The Quality Control Officer at the Inflatable Woman Factory is paid handsomely to undergo rigorous testing for asexually transmitted infections, or ATIs.
The moxiemorons are those who do the jobs only the most galling and insensitive will do, such as the Funeral Home Clowns and Memorial Service Stand-up Blue Comics. Lately, the Service Comics have suffered a drop in income when asked, "What are you, a professional comedian or something." (Comics make less than comedieans, FYI.)
A funeral home clown asked a testiying mime how much he is paid. The mime held out both hands, flicking fingers, coming out $110,000. The funeral clown scoffed.
"I make three times that much," he boasted.
The mime quickly applied war paint to his face and held up his palm: "How?" (Not racist because it's funny.)
"Because my mute-ated friend with nothing to say otherwise, I am paid not to come. And, as they say--but not you, of course--you get what you pay for."
The Flat Earth Mathematician just sighed. "I make less than both of you, because the people who pay me can round off."