he sits by the window

smoking a cigarette

she doesn't know what to

say to him

it's always the same:

the smoke

mingling heavily

with the air

and the silence

as oceans hold you

beneath waters dark,

the low tide tends

its warm pools

and salty air

while stormy seas churn

your restless thoughts,

the white shores mold

into blankets soft

and sandy sleep

when cruel waves steal

your only breath,

i hope you dream

of a ship

in the fog.

Prose has become a second home for me. It is here I finally feel free to express myself on the page; to explore new forms of writing and see how I (and others) like the results; and to meet an incredibly diverse group of talented writers who, by their own work, have helped me learn and develop my own. It is here I have found a voice and an outlet to use that voice. It is here I have learned that I can fail and not feel crushed by failure; it is simply another learning experience.

People have noticed a recent change in my mood and outlook, and when they ask me about it, I tell them it's because of Prose. I write for myself (and not just clients) every day now, and I have a venue to share that work. I also write for others. Sometimes other writers will encourage me to expand a story I've written or take on a new topic, and it is in those moments that I truly feel part of something larger than myself. I think it is fair to say that Prose and the writers that make it up are an essential part of my life now, and for that I couldn't be happier.

Hahaha, did you guys see the email for S&S results? Ugh, I didn't win, they said based on blank, blank and grammar, huh? NVM brah, I'm good :) well, just wanted to say... HARDLUCK ZOMBIESSS ^_^ 

Congratulations to all the winners!! Shooting in the air, Boom! Boom! Boom! ^_^

and i draw you in,

 one breath -

you used to cry for me,

 hold me in.

you wouldn't let go,

 no need to exhale.

i could have grown, 

 so much, in your love.

somehow, everything has gone

 pretty vacant.

i feel so alone,

 you must have let go.

for some reason, 

 you turned.

you refuse love

 no longer hold on, hold in.

i am drowning

 in one breath.

i am lost

 in your exhale.

i am alone 

 in these tears and

you are gone,

 off without me.

the end.

‘New’ murmurs to me,

leave the damp fog

of all you every knew.

Sip the amber whisky,

ride on golden steed.

Allow tired memories

to sink below horizon.

The future lures you

with crooked fingers,

wagging promises

over the vista.

Sojourn with me,

taste cutting edge,

seal the ancient

into zippered pocket.

Fall over my cliff

but you cannot,

not ever,

walk backwards!

And so I spun in layers

of skin and linen sheets

heavy sighs 

and winter rain 

my hair a mess

telling stories 

of last nights dream 

After the movie, 

he said he was hungry,

so we went to the pho place

that's open late on Fridays.

I asked him what he thought

of the movie, and his eleven-

year-old enthusiasm was joyful

to see. Two huge steaming bowls

were set before us and we ate in

silence for a few moments; then,

he put his chopsticks down and

looked up at me. Did you ever know

my mom, he asked. Never, in

the years I had known him, had he

ever asked about his mother, who is

dead now. I set my chopsticks down

and said, I only met her a couple of times.

He waited. The first time, I went on,

was before you were born, right after 

your dad met your mom. Your dad 

introduced us; it was at a beach party.

This was all down in Los Angeles, 

I'm sure you know that. She was my

friend's girlfriend, right? So we talked a

little, got to know each other. But it was

a year or so before I saw her again, and 

she was pregnant with you that time. She was-

and here I struggled with how to describe

to her son what Karen was like; an addict,

a thief, a failed starlet, generous yet cruel,

capable of vast love and sacrifice and

selfishness beyond metric - She was 

very excited to be a mom, very excited

to meet you. She used to sing to you, 

while you were kicking inside of her,

songs from her country; they were so 

beautiful and sad sounding, I couldn't

bear to listen for long because they always

reminded me of things I didn't want to think

about. But they were lovely songs, to 

give you peace. I had to stop here, I had to 

look away from him. She loved you, I told him

and he said, How do you know,

and I answered, Because she tried to be stronger

than she knew how to be, so you could 

be here now. She turned her back on herself

while you were growing in her, to protect you.

The last time I met her, it was just before I 

moved back here. You were a few months old,

I guess. I met you for the first time, too.

She was so happy - and I stopped again, 

because I remembered that night and how

I had gone out to the supermarket and bought

her a dozen cases of formula because when I saw

her try to breastfeed him I knew there was junk

in her and I panicked and wanted to do something,

anything, no matter how futile, how small and 

irrelevant, and she had hugged me tight and thanked

me with tears in her eyes because she knew why I had

done it and we stood there in each others' arms

crying as he slept wrapped in flannel on the

couch beside us - so happy you were finally there.

I don't know what he knows about his mom,

what his dad has told him; she died when he was

barely a year old. Do you remember her, I asked.

He shook his head, picked up his chopsticks

again and said, It's for the best. And I said,

why's that? You can't miss what you don't remember,

he shrugged. And I thought, is that really so?

Is that why we are allowed to forget?

I can tell you

of the rain coming down,

pouring out of an angry sky,

finding its way deep

into the parched earth

and how flowers will grow

out of nothing.