a centipede crawls from

white tile to

black tile.

back to white.

and black again.

the centipede is black.

you can't see it

on the black tile.

it appears again

on the white tile

like a dark rock emerges

from ocean froth.

you watch it

with sleepy eyes.

for what seems like

an eternity

for the both of you.

then it is gone.

you can't see it anymore.

not even on the black tile.

the cicadas drone on.

the sunlight burns like black car leather.

you look around for

something else.

anything else.

to get your mind off

the heat.

or more importantly.

the stillness in

your head.

City weight upon shoulders

Drew back with deep breaths

loved thinking of putting down roots.

Rolling questions and

dropped decisions

by her teasing look.

Frowning doorway-

her blushed in unsleeping sleep

-barely.

Opposite her bed

within dragging confusion

of self-conscious speculation; cascading

covered the blindsided ache

which may explain this dizzying rush as

tingle relief awaits to be lifted.

Tightness arranged and transfers-

chest, shoulders, neck.

Mind un-slacking; drifting

darkening the dim illumination gripping.

Caught within sandpaper hands

fathoming her helpless state

alongside waiting faces; watching.

Furiously dash at dampen cheeks while

white sheets monitor sleepless lids.

Red-rimmed gaze settles on agonizing seconds

inside a numb room

of watercolor mountains and

funeral flowers side-table.

Windows peaceful, gathers blended affections

while quietly rips relief

from a listening trauma unit

Unwillingly going back...

the intensive silencing moment as

awareness of last night un-shimmers-

taunting screaming echoes

extending hitched breath

jolts red-soaked wetness flattened by adrenaline.

Shots reverberating violent-

waiting for her fluttering lashes...

© May 3, 2017. Meg.

Apple britches 

Carpal ditches 

Empty fallow

Gaming hallow 

Icy jumping 

Kindred lumping 

Monkey nosey 

Optic poesy 

Quarter ripping 

Supper tripping 

Ugly valet 

Wicked X-ray 

Yellow zippy ... 

Now we're skippy!

Words from Depeche Mode

Make you older

Than your hairline

Spiraling through vodka 

And five card draw.

One big skip 

From the casino 

One big sleep

Before heading into 

the next unending day.

it takes from you

what it took from those you hate

what it must do as the animal

and you become what feeds it

its shadow

its pulse

your excess of nothing

moves it up

across the cities

and countries and skies

you feed it

and it grows

older and older

without fear

of dying.

Downtown where Lead meets 3rd

two addicts were running from

two more addicts

to Animotion’s

Obsession

while I waited for the light

the first two disappeared between

two buildings

which shortly absorbed the second two

and it occurred to me that all four

of them were wearing brand new

parkas

what gives them away here

is their skin, but also their shoes

and also the way they run

not that I could judge them

beneath The Glenlivet

and

Vicodin

Sun

but the difference was

I hadn’t stolen anything

but I also didn’t give

a fuck about the parkas

because the desert

at night is fear

without mercy

in the blood of

addicts running

like wolves through

the garages downtown

and I was hoping

they’d pulled it off

and sure enough

two squad cars tore around

the rest of us at the light

cherries rolling

spotlights looking for the

four of them

but they were long gone

I turned up the song

and watched the sky burning pink

in the west

fronting a waiting

California

and the lost pages of Bandini

and years of colors drained now from

boulevards into

a life in the deep desert

I looked in the rearview

and thought about the house

my pups

the desk and all of it

the night that would be waiting

there

and while the music is fine

and the words do much

to keep you solid

there’s a gnawing

in the stomach

the heart,

the blood

that moves

so cautiously

across the broken things

they carry

to us still

and while we

know we’re

going to

make it through,

the loneliness

grows so heavy

it becomes

a lead sphere

inside of a lead sphere

but we count the years

like stars

lucky or not

shining or not

and it occurred to me there

that I was still lucky

any of us who can

take the time to

write

any of us who can

roll with the

day-to-day bullshit

that still gives way to

a night of poems,

of drinks,

of a pill in the mail from

a fellow writer taking effect

at sunset,

but any of us who still

have the metal left over

from the hours

we give

to sit and write

are lucky.

the light changed and I went ahead

and turned into a parking spot across the

street

where the song ended and

Mexican Radio started

and it occurred to me that every time

I hear that song on the radio

I’m somewhere prominent:

the sky to the west

ripping lines across

in pink, purple, orange

and grey

this bizarre

and magic

desert thing

above the dirt

and fields

and addicts.

Back home under The Glenlivet

and

Vicodin

Moon

counting the beauty

in Coltrane’s

Greensleeves

behind these keys,

counting

the bones

counting

the teeth

the words

that move the

blood back home

and the glory

of our time.

Caustic narrows of old race days still fog the air

the abandoned, agrestic riverbeds still chirp of crickets in the fall

this is my home

the flat land, but for six earthquaked mountains with no name

the clouds circling to and fro

never cumulus, only cirrus

the old west in searing heat of modernity

it was built up so quickly, i barely matured

a mall rose up from the ground like a furious Kracken

each cove and skybridge and sheltered patio

sucking away the watershed

the blank rivers and fields

the only green would have after a rain

now the false miracles spit like camel's acid at the plastic trees and turf

this is my home

a nun stopped me when this development ensued and asked me

"you live there?"

i felt like nothing

i felt as if my valley was a handicapped friend whom i needed to push

and dress

and feed

There.

Like it was an unwashed pair of tidey-whiteys and i was a stupid toddler

there. here. anywhere else, i would not be so upset

the racetrack now a museum

the high school now a ruin

the aqueduct a straw

i love this stupid, silly, wasted arena

As mentioned last Monday, we are launching a blog series in which our Prose. Partners will take on the question, "Why Prose.?"

To kick off the series, this week we welcome author, blogger, and editor, Jaime Mathis (@jaimemathis).

Why Prose.?

Because I want to be better. To strive for excellence in every comma, plot and spelling. To raise my bar by associating with writers more talented, diligent, and inspired than I am. Yes, I want a community that keeps me honest and challenges me to improve because I am a WRITER. Not a dilettante, not someone looking for free therapy and not someone trying to get laid or pick a fight.

Facebook is for people who don’t give a shit about the art of the written word and try to turn everything into a virtual popularity contest that has no reflection on the content, skill or merit of an idea or illustration. There is no place for pettiness or semantics or emotional neediness in Prose. as I imagine it. There are trenches that reach to glory, strung with sentences that are tight to bursting with pulchritude and punch. Prose. because you’re committed to building an empire of narrative and poem that has a fine foundation and something to screw light bulbs into.

I’m here because I want to be stretched within an inch of my skills, called to task on words that don’t quite sing and chided when semi-colons are merely decorative. I’m here because I believe in the power of craftsmanship and that it takes a community to hone a diamond from coal.

...

Stay tuned for this narrative in its entirety later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.