Wingless Freedom 2
Never a day passed
when he wasn’t there
watching the rose
white star birds
grazing in the cloudy air.
Soaring beyond sight
to appear once again.
The Fairy Terns
miracles of nature
this child was their life-long friend.
Over time, he was welcomed
following the pattern they flew.
from sky to sea
and back again
he was immersed in sunlit blue.
When he got married
they attended the rites
dazzling the couple
with flawless ballets
of graceful, inspired flight.
When his first child was born
they celebrated the birth
by directing sunlight
to enfold the infant
endowing its soul with mirth.
When his marriage ended
and his heart was broken
they hovered near him all that day
singing a song
too sad to be spoken.
When his son died in the war
and his soul was beyond healing
they wept rainbow tears
of impassioned color
to reflect what he was feeling.
Then, one day he came
and they weren’t there anymore.
He waited and watched
but they returned not
to the sky nor to the shore.
Afterwards he became depressed
when he knew his dearlings were gone
he felt deep inside
that they no longer loved him
so he made himself move on.
Many years later
after he drove everyone away
the cancer came
his breathing slowed down
his life-force a fading grey.
Slowly his limbs failed him
and he knew the end was near.
So he asked some neighbors
to take him back
to the beach which he held so dear.
They did as he wished
and left him alone.
So, there he remained
from dawn to dusk
till his body became like stone.
As his eyes began to close
he suddenly heard a sound.
Looked up and saw dozens
of Fairy Terns
slowly circling round.
One by one they descended
and covered him with their wings.
They took his pain
upon themselves
like fluttering heavenly kings.
As they flew off again
to the faraway lands
he held the last one gently
and wept
precious jewels into the sand.
The Sunlight was fading
as he let it be.
And when it flew away
He closed his eyes
as his body set his spirit free.
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
60 Milligrams
60 milligrams of numbness and 0 measures of wisdom and common decency. That's what the Creator, or whoever fucked me over as a child, seems to have intended for me. It's not greatness of soul, or passion, don't call it passion. It's a chaotic life, full of tension and hiding.
These splits tear me in two. Half-people. Half-women, half-pills, half-truths, 60 milligrams of numbness cruising through my bloodstream. And just a moment ago I felt something, only a moment ago. And that feeling is slow to return.
When I want to go back to live inside a womb. Or to stop crying next to you. Everything drains into the black hole from which all the contradictions began. When I love you, I say it, with all the mannerisms I've acquired over the years. Don't judge me harshly, I'm just a little obsessive right now. And lost. I'm a lost child, even though I'm no longer a child, maybe a bad child. Because there's no such reality as a good child. There's only a child who feels good. And I've been feeling like shit for a long time.
60 milligrams and one huge pit in the soul. And mental gashes that psychiatrists write post-doctorates about.
Today I cried again like a person who lost his God. And human image. my eyes burn and I look at my world through a glass pane filled with tears from recent nights. Yesterday I saw you looking at me, and I caught the pity. How I revealed to you that I cum the strongest only after hearing you scream in the room that I'm not sick. "You're not sick baby, you're not sick!". All this problematic genetic baggage is now in your belly.
But I wanted to hear that lie from you. Because from your mouth it still sounds credible to me. And you have a big heart that contains within it everything a man longs for. But yesterday we talked and I felt it packing its bags. I wonder if it saddens me, it does. But I'm not angry, I'm realistic - with this borderline and treacherous madness, no one knows how to cope.
The hugs from you were more beautiful than all the biggest words I wrote about you. And the dreams about you briefly brought back a sense of humanity to me.
Thank you.
Guessing Game
She'll use a crowded venue
When she feels like pretending
That someone in that room
Will start an investigation
With a sense she needs rescue.
She'll imagine all about
Who it is that thought of trying
Who'd notice the empty wall
That use to hold her 'frame of mind'.
And wonder if she might need some saving.
Knowing, she's just not worth dying for.
Things, not often what they seem
She feels ice when she plays freeze tag
And see's stop signs turn green
She'll thrives inside her hallucinations
So that her life feels like a dream
It becomes a guessing game
Oh, the thrill of make-believe
Dressing up and playing charades
Before it's time for 'hide and seek'
Though the question in her head remains
"Who would want to save a wreck like me?"
Though, she's not worth dying for
Survivors guilt to plea no contest
She'd end the game of "Simon says".
Michigan the Nation’s most corrupt state June 5th 2019 #Tellshellpodcast excerpt by Delmond Marshall
#michigan A state auditor found staggering misuse of #money & serious deficiencies in the Michigan #Economic Department Corporation of over 500 million dollars unaccounted for in March of 2024! I knew about this in #2019 from my #work with the #flintunityfarmingproject during #flintwatercrisis ! #leechatfield a #republican was using that money as a slush fund for him & his other #political #friends ! Why do you think Michigan Attorney General #dananessel #aka #dananesselblows Sealed his court records & #govwhitmer aka #govwhitless court records? Google Lee Chatfield Rick L Johnson, Flint Water Crisis, Kenyel Brown to see gross Government Misconduct & Misuse of Government funds. My upcoming book, titled #tellshellpodcast deals with the Flint Water Crisis & my work with area youth with our Flint water crisis. The total corruption of politics on the local, state & federal level is unreal. Stay tuned. To listen to our podcast. use link below 1st comment. #the7since1987publishing #corruption #usa #Socialjustice
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
In Memory Of.... by Delmond Marshall
This is in memory of a great friend I lost recently. I didnt lose them to a car accident, drug overdose, a long term illness or street violence, but to their decisions to do things that I do not approve of, stand for, or believe in.
This in Memory Of true story about a once thriving relationship, no longer best friends.
Things that I as a man, who stand strong by what I believe in can not look past or ignore,
The constantly taking my kindness for weakness wasting my time, I cant deal with any more....
The wake was a few months ago and I was the only one in attendance, convinced to face this loss alone.
I said a prayer as I deleted this person's contact info, texts and call log from my phone...
I remember asking this person to stop with what I percieved as "detrimental behavior" for the sake of our friendship, but I was told, "Why are you so sensitive, leave me alone, Im grown.
Shaking my head, so far gone, this person is so blinded by their delusions of self-grander & ignorance that they are too blind to see, the negative feedback of their actions on their own.
I wish it was a drug or alcoholism problem because we'd know what steps to take, treatments needed to correct the issues...
Instead of substance abuse this person met their demise with me because of the irrational, self-centered thoughts, ways & actions of a savage this person have in their head...
Im sure many of us have have lost a close friend, or lover, or family member not to death, but because of the choices they made or things they do that is not alright with you....
So instead of fussin and fightin with them, you simply walk away from them COMPLETELY, and leave them to do what they do...
Its hard at first to accept this as their fate when you reminise about all the good times you two had together and you thought it would last forever...
And it would have had this individual treated you and themselves a whole hell of alot better.
There's no tombstone to make the gravesite of this loved one, you still see them in person, or hear from them daily or both.
They are alive and well still, but until this person start treating themselves better, to me they will remain a ghost..
#The7Since1987
The Puppet
Sitting in the interrogation room I wonder where it all went wrong. He was the man of my dreams. Our wedding day was perfect, these last few years were perfect. I never could have guessed it would end like this. He wasn’t who I though he was. I should’ve never opened that door. I mean the only rule that my husband had for me was to not go into the closet in the hall. I should have listened. I hear the door open, and two men walk into the room and sit down.
“You are aware that you can have a lawyer present as we question you, correct?” one of the men asks me and in nod in response. He pushes a voice recorder to me and says, “we need a verbal confirmation for the record.”
“Yes, I understand.” The man who spoke finally looks up at me.
“I’m agent Robertson this is agent Knox. Were you aware of what your husband was keeping in the linin closet in your home?” he looks at me and I shake my head.
“Again, we need a verbal confirmation or denial.”
“No, I wasn’t aware there was a...” I can’t finish my sentence as I start sobbing. I am disgusted by what I had found. I am disgusted at my husband. Agent Robertson nods his head and writes something in a notebook. The men ask me a few more questions but I don’t fully answer. I can’t believe this. I need to know why. Why he did this. I need to know if he truly loved me or if I was just a cover story.
“I would like to talk to my husband.” I lookup at the men and they look at each other concern filling both of their eyes. “I need to know why.”
“Mrs. Most people like him never have a reason why they do what they do. “
“I don’t care I need to talk to him.” The agents nod at each other and stand up.
“We will see if we can get you in there.” Agent Knox tells me.
“Thank you.”
A few hours later the door opens, and an officer leads me to another door. As I walk in, I see my husband sitting in a chair, handcuffed to the table.
“Leslie.” I hear my husband laugh as he says my name. I sit down in the chain across from him.
“Why?”
“Why what Les?” he asks me, and I shake my head.
“You know exactly what I want to know.”
“I really don’t darling.” He chuckles and rage fills me.
“Why the fuck was there a human hanging up in our closet!” I yell at him and start crying. An officer opens the door and starts to walk me out of the room when I hear him mutter something.
“What was that you bastard?” I yell at him
He laughs and, in a voice I’ve never heard. he said, “She was my toy, my puppet. Just like you.”
my research into death
On the 49th day of my bardo I'll climb into an ugly womb to be expelled with all the sticky things, my histories flushed down the drain. And I'll enter this world again just as I have at least 913 times before dressed in waxy skin belonging to the wind.
This is the door I'll choose: orange like the angry sunset protests over times neglectful motions- chased behind tall buildings of a city gone betray me.
I'm painfully enlightened by its cracks, my fingers trace in spiraled patterns spelling out my old discarded names.
I'll enter the doorway knowing to forget the sea and leave its mystery for someone else to worship.
9 fruits
Time loiters at my gate with fruit, and fights my grip of a meaning…
right back into my laughing lilac mouth-
tooth, fang and claw I spit the pits into a bucket… it settles...
with the violence of a note in B pushing off from C back to itself on the piano keys -
Hunts the fucking mercy out of me.
Makes me taste my own heartbreak in silence.
My eyelashes contoured to the scent of my morning desires wound up in the wrinkles of my sheets…
Finding music and stories unfolding inside the mouth of my bed, stuffed with nothing but my own wreck.
And I just may find myself in an awkward bend against the morning amidst lampshades falling
as I set fire to the rain inside my head.