In the park there's Gypsy technicians

engineering freedom around the oak trees that lead to nowhere.

And I would have hung around

saddled in the stars titling in the shadow of foreheads passing by.

I would've dragged the constellations nearer to the earth.

A midnight blue scattered around my waist.

Turning gold in the pink flesh of the crooked arms of the moon.

In February.

But,

I'm capturing blood in my head instead.

Dashing mentally into what seems an eternal corner.

Rolling in cross legged nothings of restless meditations and spent cigarettes choked between my fingers.

I am hungry.

And I don't dance very much anymore.

I sigh about it and start to believe it.

Sing it like a song.

Biding my time

battling the urge to break bread under a bridge...

Losing my sense of traffic upon the rivers dimpled wave smaller than a hush- booming-

make room for my eyes caught in the privacy of trash bags whistling against the wind.

A Challenge created by putski brings home the first glance on today's feature on Prose. Radio, where Hot Chocolate bass-lines the morning into the world created by four talents and their heavy lifting of our minds into - then onto, a plateau of a dimension defined by coping, four seasons in heavenly bodies warming by the fire, a madman's babbling, and into the lemonaide air with a flash.

Here's a link to the show.

https://youtu.be/W0u4DfJbSx8

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/814391/the-cheshire-cat-with-a-side-of-pork-and-beans https://www.theprose.com/post/814503/togetherness-for-the-whole https://www.theprose.com/post/814610/i-found-these-things https://www.theprose.com/post/814243

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose team.

I didn't win the vagina lottery

wasn't born with one

haven't been able to find one

ready willing able to hold me

even for that little bit of time

for me to spew renew

left to my own devices I fall

on my knees and say words

directed to the vast heavens

take away this blasted curse

send rain wash me

cleanse my aching soul mind

hands clenched white tears

unashamed I can't do it by

myself alone unassisted sole

help help me Rhonda

Abba Hercules Diane

I can't make it one more day

the mountain fell

within her mind-

a whimper of smoke

ruined dreamscape

burned hot by

ocean flame

ashen graves

piled over, faded

windswept to uncover

bones, barely burned

singed, marred by

fleeting memory

of a hazel eye,

narrowed beneath

a furrowed brow

a watery gaze

pleading for a

heeded call

the virgin weeps,

torn to speak

and yet,

she still whispers

in vain

She spoke

breathlessly

Mouth agape,

wondrous sin

spilling forth

from velveteen lips

I melt and restructure

loyal servant

to chopping seas

The thought to flee

is fleeting now

as she turns, moves,

thinking to release me

Seeds flowing in the wind,

she pulls me in

We begin again

It is attention,

all the same

She plays cacophonies

upon my splintered

vertebrae, slender fingers

rummaging through nerve

and bone, plucking a

mournful tune

within the throes

of delicate submission

I lie sprawled

across tanned, taut

flesh, slick with desire

and shame

Stripped upon the altar,

I am nearly void

of offerings to give

In the way I trip over old cords that lead nowhere, this is the way you trip over dusty dreams, machinations of projects and harder times in which you would whisper "I told you so" to the generations who told you it was too much-- though in three decades time, they came to see the virtue of your ways, but me, no I am the demon, yes I am the creature who dares to call the old book trash, who renounces the water stained furniture, who blames the structure's problems on shoddy uncle-brother-neighbor craftmanship from people who knew much less than they'd admit, I am the beast who speaks of yard sales and thrift stores, of moving shelves, the cannibal calling professionals over relatives, who roars at unannounced visitation, the wicked banshee lording over the thermostat while holding sweaty, screaming children, wounded messenger crying out-

I am the monster

come to feast on broken homes

Nostalgia, it weeps

Memories are only sad when I let myself forget the joy.

There's a strange kind of envy felt for the person who I used to be---

The one who burst with energy and wrote of hope for life to come

And spent her days in trees and books and laughed through all the pains of life.

It's easy for me now to pity the person I've become

Because my space is a mess, my mind's even messier, and in general I've thrown myself into chaos.

And I'm up at night convincing myself that I need to be that kid again

Because kids don't worry about these things, they just want sunlight and sugar and love.

But lying there just hating myself and staining my memories grey with regret,

I'd forgotten that kid who just wanted a life where loving was all she needed to do.

I'd forgotten I can still climb trees and lie in the sun and eat sprinkles on their own,

Even when my mind tells my heart that the things it loves are no longer possible.

And memories are only sad if I let myself forget the joy.

And life is only pointless if I let myself forget that kid.

Now I just want to tell her that she's going to become a big, hot mess.

But her heart goes right on loving even when she feels it least.

Look at the sun, do you see the same light?

Think of loving me, wish the day away,

Hoping and dreaming that someday we might.

I think of you through the darkness of night.

Though the weight of the world puts us astray,

Look at the sun, do you see the same light?

We hold onto our love, even despite

The plod of our lives, we crave for a way,

Hoping and dreaming that someday we might.

Now think of me, of the way I'll shine bright

When at last we meet, I'll know that today,

Look at the sun, you will see the same light.

Even without you, I will not lose sight

Of what we will be, but just for today,

Look at the sun, do you see the same light?

I'm hoping, dreaming, that someday we might.