Thick socks

that my grandma made for me

from wool

I see them laying on

the rug at

the foot of the bed

and they look like the heads

of wolves in

waiting

waiting in the snow

behind bushes

dry with frost

I grab them

and slide them down my fists

like gloves

I have wolf heads for

hands

And I start punching things

and grabbing them and shredding

them with the fangs

the blanket

the tablecloth

the pillow

my knees

yet in my fantasy I can't decide what

happens when the

wolf head hands

meet each other

Do they fight

and bite each other?

Or do they cuddle and lick?

Luckily I don't have to

find the answer. My

grandma opens the door and yells

for me to come

out already. It's time for school.

Yes, despite anything I thought back

then, I do miss those times

Oh, how I do

miss them

***

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Your leather boots

Hung tarnished over

The Cumberland plateau

And your Southern drawl

Was swaying like a ghost on

The Autumn breeze

You said to me, darlin'--

And I forget the rest.

Because my flesh erupted

Touched by your fire

And I was a pressed rose

Between the flaps of

Your tobacco pouch

I was swaddled deep

Within the musk of your soul

Burrowing with delight

And ingested, permanently.

I have a talent for less

and an aura pristine

(but for holes, and stains

among cadres of things)

I ache to feel better

am a puzzle-less clue

with a talent for less

and thoughts to chew.

i think of you every time my phone buzzes

i quickly, shamefully hope for an apology

some kind of reason i'm worth your time

proof you still think about me all the time

i decided it isn't fair to hold any of this over you

i'm hurt, maybe i did something wrong

i feel tragic and worthless and melodramatic

all the things i promised myself i would never feel

when i promised myself i would never be in love

i've fogged up my window with all this blame

and through the haze i can't see it in myself to hate you

i'll go on hating myself and find comfort in familiarity

What's the earliest you can remember?

Do you smell the sour morning breath of your classmates back in elementary school as they shared an elaborate scheme to send a left-handed letter to their crush?

Do you remember whole films in your head as you fall asleep, twisting and turning on a pillow whose corner you rubbed against your eyelid back when you were old enough to acknowledge that fairies existed?

How about that squeaky toy wagon, screeching away with red wheels and blue edges, your Sesame Street cubes with bite marks resting in a pyramid on top?

Do you remember that Jacob's ladder, how it fascinated you as the colored blocks went form left to right, held up by lace?

I remember it all.

I remember the soccer team's screams as they yanked each other's shirts; I would hang upside down from a red-and-blue metal jungle gym where I'd eat my ham-and-cheese sandwiches, my sweet juice boxes. Berries were my favorite flavors. Mango the least favorite. It tasted bitter more often than not.

I remember every memory, nearly every word, or the flavor they held on the tip of my tongue.

I remember the laughter, the tears, every single thought held tight in the back of my throat;

every nightmare, every dream, every piece of clothing that got torn as I fell while running, on a skateboard, or the 16 miles I rode on a bicycle as the sharp pedal got caught up on my jeans.

Remembering is a blessing. Remembering is a curse.

Because you remember every loving, affectionate moment that made you feel

like you could soar high up in the air, untouched by the lightning in any storm,

and every single moment of doubt and slash of hurt, every cruel concept you've said,

every single goddamn frustration that roams freely across the streets of your head.

You remember every nook and cranny of every childhood homes, every apartment,

every step from every staircase you roamed.

And when people tell you, "Nah, that didn't happen, you're remembering it wrong,"

you feel the growing, aching frustration because

they don't get your brain the way that you do.

They do not get how you remember those exact moments:

the phone call you never picked up,

the hug from every person you've ever loved,

the way their skin smelled and the way their eyes glowed.

You remember everything.

So how dare they

say you

do

not?

the universe

is indifferent.

it's open eye

gazes upon suffering

and does not look away.

the universe

is an impartial observer,

and each action

we make

in its name

is mere amusement,

a joke told

in a bar

to be laughed at

and then forgotten.

humanity

has learned

to take indifference

personally.

after all,

exclusion is

the most common form

of cruelty.

we can be punched

and get back up.

we can be celebrated

and torn back down.

but how can we stand back up

if our enemy merely

walks away?

there is an injustice

in indifference

a sense of loss

in every battle

left unfought.

by remaining

impartial,

the universe

has unwittingly chosen its side.

by seeking apathy

it has become

hostile.

It's a mixed bag for me.

Sometimes I like to lurk. Seeing true art graffiti-ed on the walls of the web is gratifying in a way words can't quite explain. The internet is rife with garbage work pretending to be anything but. Prose is a welcome reprieve.

Sometimes it's to dump the things out of my head when I get that insatiable itch to put words on page. There's something special about knowing I can post anything in the world, whether it be snippets of a novel or the incoherent ramblings of an insomniac at two in the morning.

Sometimes it's to wander through Portals and into treasure troves of talent. Poetry beyond reckoning embraces my senses. The genius on this platform is more abundant than June cockroaches on Bourbon Street.

And Finally-- for the challenges.

The indulgence.

The special treat to greet at the end of a long day of living among un-writerly folk.

I am continually delighted by the creativity to be found there-- in the Challenges section.

In short, Prose. is the choose your own adventure I didn't know I needed.

it's a blissful universe,

one in which i don't exist

my intangibility gives me strength.

i find solace in the nihilism,

freedom in living fast,

i depend so heavily upon

my mental illness

to kill me before i turn thirty-three.

it's a mutual destruction,

my mind and i,

in a quest to see

which one of us

will die first.

an epic battle of the ages,

fought with sticks and stones,

reverted to a primitive age

of childhood insults.

here i can be a child,

where rebellion means

drawing on the walls

and making faces at the mirror,

or throwing a baseball

through an upstairs window

and dancing barefoot

on the shattered glass

and mommy

won't be mad

because she'll be too worried

about my bleeding feet

and the stains on the carpet

to care

about my mistake.

she'll drive me to the emergency room

and they'll tell her

i'm okay,

because little kids

don't get locked up

for doing stupid shit.

as a child my misdeeds

are inconsequential,

a speck of dust in the maladies of youth.

i can lose myself in the delusion

and my parents will be assured

that it's just

my creativity

coming out to play.

it is a blissful universe,

one where i don't exist.

yet eventually,

i was forced

to grow up

and fill the role

of existence

that i'd been trying so hard

to avoid.

She said it

as if it were

easy,

"Just hold

that happy thought,

Peter."

As if

my thoughts

were tangible.

I could not grasp

my happiness

in the palm of my hand,

could not twist it

between my fingers.

My thoughts

were droplets of rain,

sometimes a fine mist

that clung

to the edges

of my brain,

sometimes a

downpour

that an umbrella

could not stop.

She told me

to hold on

to happiness,

but I cannot grip the rain,

cannot control

its coming and going.

All it does

is soak through

the soles of my shoes

and collect

in my feet

until walking

becomes a chore

and my teeth

chatter

with nonsensical words.

The rain stays

in all the wrong ways.

She told me

to hold on

to this little shred

of happiness,

but I've already forgotten

what it was

I was trying

to hold onto.

Thus is the way of the storm,

weighing us down with water

until we can no longer feel

the individual drops.

Please don't send me

Flowers.

Send me memories

That feel like

the look of steel trash cans

Beneath florescent lights,

with that little streak

Of shine.

Always moving

towards you Like

The eyes of some

Fuckin haunted painting.

Or the notion

Of strippers

Beneath spotlights aimed

By untrained hands,

Just catching

Shadows

Of what you don't know

You missed.

Because the focus

Is shit.

Delayed Like appreciation

Often is.

And I always seem to miss

The things I almost saw.

Maybe that's life.

You only ever

Comprehend the ass

Jiggling

Towards the curtain

As dreams unrealized

Walk away,

Finished and empty

To the sound of applause.

Like the best tits

You never saw

And wish you remembered

But don't ,

But still brag about

Because no one

will ever know

The difference.

Like these

Stainless memories

Framed by charcoal regrets.

So please

Don't send me flowers.

Send me a trash can

To hold the remains.

The half wilted moments

Between inspiration

And oblivion.

I think they call it life

Or some shit.